Aleglain
by Redheredh
Summary: Tales from a forgotten quest in the Years of the Trees
1. Prologue

**Prologue – What should be known...**

After a long absence, Elwë returned with Melian to his people. Those who welcomed back their king and his queen had taken a new name: the Eglath, the Forsaken. Elwë learned that Ulmo, the Lord of Waters, had brought the Lonely Island for a miraculous second time to transport the Teleri to Aman as he had the Vanyar and Noldor earlier. Deliverance had come for the Eldar who thought themselves left stranded. But at that time, Elwë was still missing. The Forsaken were the people who would not leave without their Aran, their beloved high chieftain who had led their nation on the Great Journey.

However, being loving parents, most that chose to remain behind for his sake wished for their children, at least, to live in the promised paradise of Eldamar, in the Light of the Trees, in the presence of the Valar. So it was that Elmo, Elwë's youngest brother, the Prince of those who stayed in Beleriand, put his young son into the care of Olwë, Elwë's next younger brother who had become King of those who would depart to Aman. And Olwë became Galadhon's foster-father, promising to raise him as one of his own.

The Eglath included those who had stayed behind with Nowë, the elder lord known as Cirdan. With Elwë Singollo's return, those who were once called the Lindar, who came to be called the Teleri, who had called themselves the Eglath, and were always the Eluwaith, would become the Sindar, the Grey-elves.

The children of the Prince of the Sindar would always watch over their people in Ennor - lead, protect, and rule them – just as he had done, even after the Last Ship sailed. Even when the price for such loyalty was life in paradise.


	2. They come to hither shores

**Chapter 1 – Two princes of the Sea-elves come to hither shores**

The tiller was fighting its way out of his pummeled arms, and his desperate cry for help emerged only as an inarticulate moan to be stolen away by the gale wind. But, his face and lips being numbed into shapeless clay by the pelting rain was the least hardship he endured. His knees were swollen stiff, and his shoulders ached, protesting against the hard effort needed to keep the ship running with the wind. His hands and feet were cold as ice. The whipping salt spray lashed at his burning eyes. And worst, the utter darkness of the storm was slowly smothering his courage.

Mercifully, before it wrenched itself completely out of his control, his brother stumbled up and took over the helm, after hardly any respite at all.

"I have got it, Isil!" His brother's hoarse shout was muffled by a sudden clap of thunderous lightening. "Go!"

He squatted down, collapsing with relief, and scuttled crab-like with his lifeline dragging heavy behind him, feeling his way over to the small shelter propped up in the lee of the higher weather deck. Hunkering inside, he shoved his mittened hands into his armpits. It was useless. His body had no warmth left. But, sleep was what he craved more than a fire. Although, he knew that if he gave in to it he might not awaken when called for his next turn. He was that drained. So, he rocked on his feet, his face tucked down breathing between his knees, telling himself that he had to keep awake. Once when working in the archives, he had gone without sleep for ten arya. No great feat. Staying awake after only four of rough weather would be easy to do.

There was a time when he would have actually believed that. Once upon a time and what seemed a yen ago. Back at the precipitous start of their voyage. Back during the mad rush to stock and ready the ship. Twenty hours – barely even two arya! – with no one stopping for sleep.

For both weather and Andatar Olwë's royal guard were bearing down on them, and they could not afford even a moment's delay. The blustery skies above the hidden cove had turned ominously overcast long before they were prepared to embark. The King's Horsemen were riding bent for leather up the road ere the lines were at last cast off. It had been a hair-raising escape. Far ahead of the scheduled departure and far short of the planned size of the expedition. So there was one ship instead of one for each sibling. But, he and his brother had finally begun their long planned quest. Rather than being fatigued from their race against time, they and their crew were invigorated by the adventure begun. Maybe a little frightened too. It was only after they were past the last known isle and in wide open seas – and had held a truly raucous celebration – did any embrace slumber.

They had thought themselves so courageous, so terribly clever. Instantly discounting the labor, the sacrifices, and the traumatic events that had forced departure. Confident from ignorance and arrogant from pride. With himself, figuring that all he had to do was keep them to a northeastern course. Compounding that stupidity with blithely telling the crew to have no worries about the strange and unknown stars slowly appearing in the skies overhead. He would pilot them safely to their far destination. He had discovered the arcane knowledge that others had missed or ignored. He alone knew how to apply it. And they could depend on the Fairëressë, a masterwork stronger and swifter than any ship launched before it, to bear them safely over uncharted seas. Why, the shore they sought was mere weeks away.

That confidence had faded close unto death when twice the estimated time had passed with no sight of land. But, they had bravely continued on. Seeing as they had already sailed past the point of no return in more ways than one. Still... Encounters with the denizens of the starlit deeps had taken a daunting toll upon their valor. The temperate weather had turned discomfortingly chill. What they thought an abundant supply of drinking water had dwindled until rationing was necessary. Some cold and thirsty for the first time in their lives.

All that was no excuse! He should never have asked for Ossë's help! For the rest of his life, he would berate himself for making that one bad decision. Especially when they already knew that that Maia harbored no sympathy for their ultimate goal. Calling on Ulmo's rebellious servant repeated the same mistake that had started off this insane mission. Undeniably, their present predicament was his own fault. They would not be in this danger, if he had not loosed his hold on the hope that had buoyed the company through past peril. He should have done as his brother had asked and waited for a cloud burst rather than invited a deluge.

How much longer could they ride this endless squall? The incessant noise of the tempest wore on the spirit and stretched time into a soaked haze. Monstrous thunder and lightening had now joined in the assault. Above them, redoubling clouds had blotted out the stars and left them guideless. The remains of the tattered sails flailed from the masts, snapping like a line of festival flags. Had they truly been so far from shore that such a stupendous shove as this had not yet brought them to landfall?

Ossë would keep his word, but he was cruel in intent. Curtained by waving sheets of heavy rain, the main deck was hidden in featureless darkness, save for the swinging circle of sputtering light cast by the last lantern not blown away by the wind or washed away by the waves. They would reach land eventually – as a sinking derelict. The ship itself was sturdy enough, but mounting exhaustion was forcing him and his brother to take shorter and shorter turns battling the tiller. That was because there was no help to be had from the rest of the remaining crew. The bilge pump had broken down and was not repairable. The crew was baling, desperately baling.

At least, those who had not been washed overboard or were so worn out that they had collapsed. Those like him, too weak to have been allowed on this voyage and ultimately proven worthless to their survival. Even Nerwen, with her athletic stamina, might have outlasted this trial, where it had become obvious he would not. Nonetheless, when considering the likely outcome, and what else they had already faced, he was glad that she and his sister had not come along. He wished that he had been able to convince her, as he had Lindë, to make that choice for herself. Outright forbidding her had nearly caused his brother to quit their quest. It had been a chancy order for most of the crew would have followed him. But, a good and right decision, all the same. However heavily it weighed on his brother to have to leave her behind.

Outside his huddled reverie, he discerned a new, different sound growing in volume beneath the overriding loudness of the storm. A low, quavering whoosh... an echo of surf... Had they finally reached land?! He raised his head to listen better. But no, how could that be when Ossë has no mercy! The heralding hiss was the crash of waves smashing against rock. A bright flash of rumbling lightening lit up everything for a moment. He glimpsed the unbelievable disarray of the flooded deck and the line of balers staggering with fatigue. The residual glare to the eyes had not even begun to fade when came the dreaded cry. "Reef!" bellowed Maica, who had lashed himself to the bow as lookout. "Reefs ahead!" The returning darkness felt even deeper.

Isil struggled out of the shelter, meaning to go to his brother's side, but found he could not stand; his legs would not unbend. Dragging himself to the edge of the deck, he could hear his brother cursing in a fruitless effort to turn the ship. Although, the short distance was impossible for him to cross, he no less tried; barely crawling forward. Remorse dragged on him as much as rigidity.

They should not have skirted around the Valar's benevolent care. This wretched end was meant as their punishment for defying the Powers. It might be that they had been _allowed_ to commit folly; that their destruction was inevitable from the very start. Perhaps because success would have exposed the truth that quendi kind might be just as well off when left on their own. Well, such suppositions had no significance now. This band of adventurers would not be sung of as heroes but fools. Fools who had stupidly gambled everything they valued and had only ended up losing their lives.

The deck heaved beneath him as a huge swell speedily lifted high the ship. The flimsy shelter broke down, and he was shoved back onto the lower deck. The Fairëressë seemed about to take into the sky, yearning to become the swan it emulated. And then, it dropped precipitously out from underneath.

For a sliver of a moment, he floating like a leaf, suspended inside whirls of silver rain. A burst of thunder shook his bones, and in a brilliant burst of simultaneous lightening, he saw the pale prow of the ship falling towards glistening stone teeth. Light-blinded, he heard the hull strike ere he dropped hard onto the shuddering deck. Pulled backward then slung forward again on the next swift swell, the ship heeled, keel to rock, until on beam ends. His body, which had been rattled into alertness by the fall to the deck, instinctively clutched for the lifeline that secured him. He slid across slick planks, until the rope snapped taut, and he was jerked to gut-bruising stop. Lightening exploded again, spectacular with a reverberating, deafening boom. The rope broke. Startled, he flailed for a handhold on anything. But, his fingers, blanketed by the mittens, could find none. He tumbled, head over heels, towards the low bulwark.

Suddenly, his out-stretched arm was grabbed by the sleeve, and his body was halted. A heavy wave fell over everything. He was torn from the saving grasp and flushed into the roiling sea to be towed under with other debris. In the pitch black and numbing cold, he became urgently wiser. Pulling off his shapeless gloves, he threw out his hands and groped in the liquid void. Something small with a buoyant heft to it skimmed past; grazing the fingertips of his left hand, whispering the taunting probability that it was rising to the surface.

The underwater crackle of their tormented ship's dying throes, as it was again smashed against the reef, offered ironic confirmation as to the direction he needed to go if he was to live. He stroked with his arms, climbing rather than swimming. When his head cleared water, he was gasping for air. Immediately, successive waves washed over him, grabbing and carrying him along. Twisting his body to the roll of the water, he broke through the crest of each just long enough to catch a single breath. Until he thudded against a large, floating timber. Desperately clawing at its splintered bulk, he dragged himself up onto it as best he could.

The monumental effort used up the last of his remaining strength. He was spent. Waves coated him again then again, weighing him down under what felt like a thickening shroud of ice. He lay frozen and panting, trying to take in enough air to stay alive. But, the harsh surf spoke clearly. He was being brought to the sharp rocks. The first toss against them would kill him.

Death looming, he made one last effort, pulling both air and water into his lungs in a single, final breath. In what he believed would be his farewell to his little brother, he cried out, "Telpë!"

He compulsively coughed and continued to cough, sucking in more water with each uncontrolled spasm until his lungs simply gave up. His wrung-out body relinquished its hold of the timber, and he began to slip away.

It was over. The sea would have his corpse. Mandos would have his spirit. He was done... wrecked along with their beautiful swan ship and their heroic quest... drowned... his only brother with him... friends and crew... all drowned... on the very shores they had sailed hither to find...

His sluggish heartbeat became slower still, about to come to a dead stop.

... well, to be absolutely fair... he had _been warned… that it would end this way..._

_"Isil! Isil... "_

TBC

**= Author's Notes =**

_All elvish is in Sindarin unless otherwise indicated and __underlined__ means I put it together myself – corrections and comments are welcome!_

Aleglain – Unforsaken – _eglan_ forsaken (singular) which is both an adjective and a noun with _eglath_ a collective noun

||… Some of you old-timers may recall a transient story by Marnie entitled "Unforsaken". This is kinda my continuation of that short collaboration between her and me. I wish to express my utmost gratitude to her for her generosity and what I learned from her about writing fanfiction. _It's just too bad so little sank in... ;P_ – and Congratulations! to her on the publication of her first book ...||

aran – king (also translates as 'Lord' for it means the ruler of a realm, not just royalty)

arya – 12 hours (different from aurë or ré) in my tales, the 12 hour 'day' of the Two Trees _Quenya_

yen/yeni – year/years - a Valarian year consisting of 144 solar years _Quenya_

andatar – grandfather _Quenya_

Lindë – Lindenya, an OC middle sister of the two brothers

Maica – an OC, friend and crewman – as did practically all the members of the quest, he had kin left behind in Beleriand.

Fairëressë – the brothers' swan ship, 'Lone Spirit', renamed when it was the only ship fully fitted and could be made ready for the voyage

**= Concerning the basic premise =**

The Umanyar Eldar – The Eglath were Eldar, having set out for Aman as part of the huge host of the Teleri. They just did not quite make it there on the first try... or the second.

It should be noted that Varda's stars were closer to the earth before being moved back to make way for the Sun. The Hither Lands were not as dark as night before the destruction of the Trees. An Amanyar elf would not have found starlit Arda all that dim in the Years of the Trees. The Darkening of Valinor impacted Endorë as well.

Seaworthy ships – It is shown that the Eldar could not cross the Great Sea without direct help from Ulmo. But later on, the Teleri of the Falas were apparently not given the same assistance with building boats as were the Teleri of Tol Eressëa.

In the Years of The Trees, the Umanyar Teleri are not specifically noted as coming west in their own ships; resuming their interrupted journey west after Elu Thingol returned and telling tales of the Hither Lands. It also appears that the Amanyar Teleri were not sailing their great ships east nor trading between the continents. Because, the Valar's intent was to keep the Eldar safe from harm, and they exercised a benign dominion over Aman. One could not legitimately leave without getting Their leave.

The Teleri, as a people, exhibit strong emotional ties. The Amanyar Teleri desired to be reunited with the Noldor on the mainland and were gifted with ships to take them there. So, I speculate that some of them must have had a desire to be reunited with the Forsaken. The Valar would have obviously discouraged such a danger-ridden venture. However, departures would have been left to the control of local governors. The idea of fetching the unwilling to share in the bliss would have been disdained by society. A social stigmatism which can be seen in the Exiles and their dealings with the Umanyar.


	3. They land on hither shores

**Chapter 2 – Two princes of the Sea-elves land on hither shores**

He hurt! He hurt! He hurt so much!

Bear it, his mind told him.

Somehow, his mind was complacently detached from the horrible pain.

Pain, his mind pointed out, meant he was alive. Seeing as there was no pain in Mandos. Or so people said. Although of course, that fact was suspect, since no one had as yet come out of the Halls of Waiting to verify that it was so.

The Halls of Waiting was where he would rather be then suffer this torment! He hurt! He hurt!

His mind dismissed the notion that death was better than life under any circumstances. The person sitting close-by was of more relevance.

That person leaned over him. A flat hand pressed down upon his chest, just below the tip of the breastbone. There was a sharp spike of even greater agony. He might have cried out.

But in the moments that followed the initial shock, a concentrated flow of blessed relief poured into his body, utterly overwhelming him. When he came back to himself, he found the wailing pain had been lulled to sleep, reduced from excruciating to merely aching, by a radiant song of well-being heard from deep within his fëa.

Gradually, the tonic chorus of healing quieted. Its notes drifted away into the ether of his breathing; leaving him feeling hollow, nonetheless free of pain. Only after the last echo of the spell-song had completely faded did the hand lift from him and the silent singer lean back.

"He is waking now," announced a gruff, male voice. "I can do no more anyway." The voice carried a subtle note of weariness, but not disappointment.

The healer, who smelled of herbs and salt and vinegar, heaved a self-satisfied sigh and went away. His place was immediately taken up by another, who smelled strongly of smoke, wool, and fish scales.

"Do you hear me?" called a maiden's voice; much louder than necessary and wincingly sharp to Isil's ears. He did not recognize this voice either.

Who were these people? Where was he? What had happened? What kind of sorcery had just been done to him?

Not any sort, adjudged his mind. Naught but the purest healing.

Perhaps he was in gardens of Lórien...

"You be wakeful, poor one?" the maiden asked in a more modulated voice

Her peculiar Telerin dialect piqued his mind's curiosity, and it prodded him to open his eyes. But when he did, there was no nís peering down at him. The trill creature bore only a semblance of a face! His mind petulantly informed him that she was not some amorphous fana. His eyes were merely out of focus. He squeezed them shut and opened them again, but to no improvement. He could not see right.

"Oh dear me, your eyes be clouded?" she cooed with an Islander lilt.

Which made him think that perhaps he was nearer to his own house than to Irmo's. He let his useless eyes close of their own accord.

"The blow to his head. His sight will likely return," explained the healer, without a fleck of sympathy.

Perhaps his eyes were useless, his mind grumped, but most assuredly not his nose. There were more than enough informative odors in the air – whale oil and dried fish, old rope, wet rags, a salty tang. A sick-room scent also swirled in the churning soup of smells. And there were sounds – the thumping tread of the healer's footsteps on a plank floor, rain sheeting on a shingled roof overhead, wind whistling through tiny crannies. It was not difficult to conclude he was in a wooden storehouse by the sea. His mind wondered why coast-dwellers, however remote, would not shelter their goods as they would themselves, in weather-tight stone buildings. However, a better mystery was that these people had a healer that could reside in a royal court to care for them instead of a physician possessing mostly medical skill and a normal modicum of power.

"I am having to go now, Halfig," said the healer. "Just water and broth for him until I say otherwise. You fetch me, if need be. But, you should have no need." This last was said in a wry tone that cautioned against disturbing him for anything less than an emergency.

Do not let him leave, demanded his mind. Questions must be answered.

A parched rasp was all the speech Isil could manage. He tried to raise his head, and the room spun. Instinctively, he grabbed at the edges of the bed to steady himself, discovering that his hands were bandaged; his limbs and body likewise wrapped up.

"There-there," soothed the maiden. She gently patted his trembling hand from atop the tucked blanket. "Halfmerillen be here to look after you. Do you thirst?"

The healer's footsteps traveled a short distance ere there was the clatter of a latch. A bit of the outside weather blustered inside before the door was adamantly shut.

Isil jerked at the boom of the door slamming closed. The wet gust that had come in blew dank against his face, and his body shuddered – not with cold but alarm. His mind indifferently assured him that he was inside safe from the storm, but his racing heart paid no heed. He was bound and captive! Nonsense, his mind admonished. Just bandages and bedcovers.

No! Bound! Captive! Whereupon, rational thought was summarily cast out; its place usurped by uncontrollable fear. An unbidden whimper rose from his contracted throat as he was overcome by panic.

"Isil?" queried a hoarse and uncertain voice.

His brother! His little brother! Suddenly, a terrible memory vividly replayed.

A brutalized Telpë was thrown down at his feet; choking and bleeding and broken. What had been the welcomed light of a lamp revealed the awful damage done. He could only stand staring in shock. Before the guards backed out of the cell, one of them, his face distorted by a blackened eye and split lip, spat on his prone brother. The iron-strapped door slammed closed and was locked; the finality of those sounds punching down his doughy courage. The fearsome darkness that he had suffered alone over uncountable hours encased them both. In the blackness, he dropped down to sit on the dank floor, and urgently pulled Telpë off the icy stone onto his warmer lap, hugging him to his heart. His little brother swooned away, listless in his arms, and his guts knotted in anguish. He cursed the guards for their cruelty. He riled at Telpë for being so stupid as to fight arrest and for just getting caught. He sobbed his brother's name over and over as he rocked him.

"Shush now. Let the others sleep. All be well."

A pair of strong hands was pinning him down. One hand lifted and went to his brow, immobilizing his head.

"Lie back and be still. Lest you start bleeding inside again."

They were back! Back in that rotting cellar! They had been recaptured! He flailed helplessly against the grip of the guard. He yelled. He kicked. Something was hobbling his feet. Shackles! Muddy thick water! Rising water! They had to get out! They would drown! _Elentari save us!!_

"Telpë!" His call was as dry and hoarse as his brother's, but flooded with fear. "Telpë!"

"Be calm! Be calm! There be no harm here! No no no, not you too! Get back into your bed! Or I shall come put you there!"

It was all happening again! The guards were hauling his brother away to a separate cell! Stop! No! Do not resist! Stop making them hurt you! His stomach lurched at the smell of moldering trash that wafting out from the black maw of that chamber's entrance. He cringed at the sight of Telpë being shoved through the narrow doorway, and squeezed shut his eyes against it. Chains clanked and rattled as they manacled his brother to the wall. No! No! You can not do this! This is torture! This is evil! I told the truth! There is no conspiracy! Only a quest! You promised to let us go, if I told the truth! But, you do not want the truth! You want me to lie!

"I am here, Isil!" Of a sudden, the guard was gone. His brother's arms held him, and he let go a sob of relief. But how? How had Telpë gotten free? "I am here! You are not alone!" were the comforting words spoken next to his ear. "Fear not!" His brother's cheek pressed against his. "Easy, Isil, easy..." Weak and wrung out, he let Telpë console him, when it should have been him consoling his little brother. "We are on shore, and we are safe."

"On shore?" he croaked. They were safe on shore? He was bewildered. How did they get down to the shore? No, they were beneath the palace! They were Uncle Olattavó's prisoners!

"That is right, on shore. Some brave people saved us." Telpë drew back, away but still near. His hands remained resting reassuringly upon Isil's shoulder and on his chest, over his heart.

Yes, that _was_ right! Some brave people had saved them!

He remembered now. Brave friends had saved them. Freeing them before they were drowned in rising muck fed by heavy monsoon rains. They had gotten out, avoided being seized again, and had sailed away... sailed away east and kept on going. Heading out on their quest else miss what was possibly their one chance to go.

He remembered... the sea-serpent, the whales, the hunger and thirst, the cold, Ossë's baneful assistance... the wreck of the Fairëressë...

He remembered dying. So then, why was he not dead? Oh, that was right... some brave people had saved them.

"Please, my only brother!" Telpë softly begged. "Please, open your eyes, and let me know you are alright!"

They had survived. They were alive. Some brave people had saved them. Saved them from downing – not once, but twice. He let go of fear and dismay, instead savoring their unfathomable good fortune. They were safe. His little brother was safe. He could relax.

All tension left his body, and he went agreeably limp.

"Isil! Halfig, water!"

Something moist touched his lips – a straw. His mouth latched on like a babe's and sucked greedily, taking no pause to breath. Abruptly, before he was satisfied, it was pulled away.

_More... _His thirst was not nearly quenched.

"Calasilmo! Open your eyes and look at me!" hissed his brother.

_Oh, shall I now?_ He was the eldest; Telpë the youngest!

Disrespect was not something his brother had been taught at home. Isil knew himself to be a rather absent-minded scholar, enamored with the abstracts of mathematics, admittedly not always tactful. But, Telpë could lope right past being straightforward to downright rude. His brother had lived on the road and outside cultured society for too long. Just as their father had said. Nothing good had come from his brother practicing violence as a sport. He had let the rabble make him into a mockery of the true prince he was.

That was not entirely accurate. Some good had come of it. The costly Fairëressë, and its unfinished siblings, could not have been built without Telpë's hard-won prizes. His brother's championship had raised respect for the Teleri, when many Noldor disdained their kindred as lacking ambition or even courage.

Irritated, Isil did open his eyes. A pale facsimile of a familiar face floated before him. Above hung a dim globe of light, casting soft, indistinct shadows all around. He could not distinguish any detail of what surrounded him. There were only blobs of color that barely represented real things. He had to stop looking. It made him dizzy.

"Thank goodness." The relief in Telpë's voice, evidence of his genuine concern, saved him from getting a scolding for his impertinent order.

"Where are we, Teleporno?" For some reason, his brother had come to prefer his Quenya – or even his cotyalo name – to his proper given name. So, it was satisfying to poke him with it now and again. Especially when he needed reminding of who he really was.

"In a warehouse close to the beach. We must keep our voices low, the others are asleep." Something swept past his eyes – Telpë testing his sight.

"Everything is but a blur. My memory too." Although, lucid thought looked to be coming back. After clearing his throat, he asked, "How long have I been unconscious?"

"Only four arya. Or as they would say here, two turns 'round." Despite speaking with a breezy ease, his brother's words sounded sad. "I have been in and out of it myself."

"Why are we not dead?" he both asked and pondered anew.

"Because Nestor Tirnadab is a singularly remarkable healer. He applied his medicine, but where that failed, he turned to his healing powers. Isil, I have never before seen anyone do what he has done. Not even one of Estë's lady healers. Nor do I understand how he does it. For one would get the impression that he is scornful of life instead of its guardian. But, he never gave up on you."

"And how are you?" Despite how many times he had cared for Telpë through injury and seen him recover fully, he was apprehensive about the answer.

"Better than you. Battered, but nothing broken or missing. Maybe next time."

"Who else?" He dreaded asking the question. Nonetheless, he had to know.

"Calindor, Ma'ramaica, and Vanue." He waited for more names, but none were said.

Three? Only three? Out of twenty-eight?! The names of Telpë's two closest friends were not said. Hwesta and Khelco... who along with Nerwen had rescued them from their imprisonment. _They_ were dead? Tears came to his eyes, and a sorrowful sigh caught in his chest. He mourned them; both good fellows and good friends. He mourned for all their valiant lost comrades.

"But then, Vanue is as good as dead. Our miracle-worker could help him no more than to ease his passing. And as usual, the mangy dog is taking his own sweet time about it." His brother's misery was hardly hidden by his offhandedness.

"I am so sorry." He was indeed. Not only for the deaths of their friends and crew, but because this disaster was his fault. A tear spilled over and streamed down his temple to his ear.

"Yes... well... " For a moment, he thought Telpë might outright forgive him; allowing that circumstances had lead him into making a mistake. Only to be reassured that his brother's heart had been further hardened, not broken, by yet another round of hard blows. "The chest has come through it better than any of us. No leaks that I could find."

"The chest?" He was confused. How did that object figure into commiserating over a tragedy? Then, he realized that Telpë literally meant what he had said. The chest had been saved too. How in all Arda had it not gone down with the ship?

"Yea, this brave one here did haul it up by himself!" chirped Halfmerillen, a bit too loudly. "After he plunked you down at my Papa's feet!" Anyone listening could tell she was taken with his brother and thrilled by his foolhardy feat. She was gushing – just like one of Telpë's mindless fight-frantic followers, who thought their Telparyon unmatched. Isil however was shocked once again by his brother's incredible recklessness. He switched the conversation from Telerin to Quenya so that Halfig would not understand any of what more was said.

"You idiot!" he proclaimed him. "You went back for it?!"

"Without it, there would be little chance for our quest to be fulfilled. Particularly, if you died."

"It was a stupid thing to do!"

"Now how would I know that? You are the genius. Yet, you do not see that I and any survivors would have been stranded had I not gotten it ere it was smashed?"

"It was not worth risking your life!"

"Isil, our lives are precisely what we chose to risk," was his brother's sharp reply. He was not going to accept a reprimand. "The contents mean success whether any of _us_ lives or dies. So please!" His tone turned cold, as it often would when he was angry and determined to have things his own way; right or wrong, cruel or kind. "Do not call me an idiot for fetching the chest, and I will do the same for you about fetching the barrel."

It was a cruel thing to say. Nonetheless, the truth. The cask of their sister's astonishing mead had been stowed aboard for the precise purpose, if the need arose, of buying Ossë's cooperation. Except, he had carelessly bargained away the entire barrel, all at once, instead of one flagon at a time. Causing what should not have been an unanticipated result.

"Hold the chest as the more valuable than our lives then," he said; his concession an oblique apology. "Even so, it still needs to be put into the hands of our kinsman."

That was a part of the overall plan the three siblings had agreed upon from the start. They would need a patron, someone to act as a protector and ally. To that end, they had gathered a collection of artifacts – illustrations and diagrams of seaworthy ships, smaller versions of tools and instruments, and a star chart – as both a gift and a bribe. All thoughtfully rendered in depictions that illiterate or simple people could understand. Just in case that was the case.

Based on information they had gleaned from their elders and previously from Ossë, they had chosen Nowë as the one to receive this boon. He was the eldest lord in Endórë, as well as the eldest kinsman of their grandfather and his brothers. In addition, he conveniently lived on the coast. Nowë would be wise enough in age and great enough in honor to do what was right. This knowledge they brought was meant for the rescue of all the Forsaken. Someone else might just keep it for himself, intending to wield power over any who would sail to Aman.

With their own ship lost, those who would need a seaworthy vessel built for their passage now included themselves.

"Telpë, you must bring the head of the village to me. I must thank him on our behalf. But more importantly, I must get us a boat, so we may continue to seek out Nowë." His guilt lay heavy on him. He wanted to do something that made the deaths of the crew matter. As well, he did not care to lay in bed, helpless and ineffectual.

"Tsk, my only brother, your head has become quite swollen. A malady you have suffered from before, although not particularly from a concussion." His brother adjusted himself in his seat. "Fisher-folk depend upon their boats for their livelihood. They will be more than reluctant to simply give one away, even if we were to tell them the truth or as nobility claim to be deserving. And who knows, we may be nearer to Eldar than these rustic inhabitants might lead one to think. So for now, trust me to handle the business of finding Nowë. That is, if you can."

He paused to allow Isil a moment to mull over his unjust indictment that his brother lacked common sense.

"For you are not going anywhere soon. Neither am I. Nor what friends are left us." He took a deep breath as if readying to start a race. "First, we honor our dead. Second, we heal. There is nothing more useful to be accomplished in this hour or the next arya. When we are well and wiser, we shall discuss what is best to do." He shifted in his seat again. "When we are fit, we will proceed – and not before."

Isil had to hold back an approving smile. More than one person had pointed out in the past that the younger Galadhonion oft had matters firmly in hand before his supposedly wiser brother had grasped the situation, and Isil should learn to appreciate it. Well, he had, and he was very proud of the disgraceful brother upon whom he could always depend. But, he could not ever let him know that. Because, directing the company and their quest was his responsibility, whether they numbered forty or four or only two.

"Since when are you in charge, _little_ brother?"

"Since I am the _only_ brother fit enough to take charge. Sort of." He abruptly switched back to Telerin. "Halfig, the bucket please?" The second it was in his hands, he noisily wretched. Then, swayed and fell off the low stool he was sitting on.

"Ai! Now truly 'tis back to bed for you!" declared their nurse. "I cannot say which of you has worse to bear – water on the brain or water in the ears."

"Do not worry, Isil," Telpë told him, switching once more to Quenya. "From here on, everything shall go as planned – we will find Grandfather and bring him with our kin home to Eldamar. And aid whoever else longs to see the Light of the Trees."

"Of course. If only because you say it shall be so." Isil pointedly sighed. "A sure bet."

Wagering on his brother to win a bout just because he said he was going to win was an old joke between them. Early on, Telpë had lost often enough, despite his determination, which had on occasion cost them a hefty wager. However, for a long time now, he had remained undefeated; making up for their losses and increasing their gains. He had become a sure bet. Still, after a nasty run-in with some unsavory racketeers, his brother had learned not say he was certain to win, even when he was. One would think that such incidents would have deterred Telpë from fighting for profit.

Dancing as an occupation would have been less risky by far. However, the fine arts were not nearly as lucrative as the martial. As their sister constantly attested to. Certainly, the family would much rather had their youngest slog along in the troupe. He would have excelled there too, and saved himself from becoming known as a black-sheep; kept out of sight and disregarded by their aristocratic peers as a do-nothing. For in the arena, he had cloaked his identity – in a blatant way that defied understanding as to how no one realized whose son he was – to shield their peace-loving father's sense of honor. Besides, Telpë would say, when they returned from their quest, he could re-enter society a lamb made chaste by redeeming deeds, as well as free from the threat of challenges to his past prowess made by fools keen to prove something. A doubly-sensible strategy perhaps, but retirement would not unmake his brother a fool for seeking the hand of a recalcitrant princess on the opposite side of a patrilinear feud.

Isil closed his eyes to the light above him. Slipping into a gentler current of thought, he began drifting in the general direction of slumber.

"Indeed, we shall voyage home," he airily went on, "and in an even grander ship. Crafted from the dark woods of these hither shores. A starlit black swan shall rise to soar. O'er the glistening, white-wave peaks of the wide Great Sea. Swooping down into its new Haven, in awe shall they be. Perfection, captained by a shining young hero. The star-blessed son of Singers: Teleporno! "

"Well said," endorsed his unfazed brother as he was nestled into his own bed by Halfig. "As usually, the poet in you, not the mathematician, is the more accurate."

"Ah but, the poet in me does wonder what has inspired such uncharacteristic cheerfulness in my usually sullen muse." Halfmerillen's silly fussing over his brother's comfort entertained, but all the same, having the last word was his due. "Might it be that having dismissed any honorable endeavor for anon, you have naught to occupy you, save blissfully lolling about this quaint barn in the arms of an earthy, eager maiden?"

This was, of course, complete nonsense. To persuade the sort of lady Telpë had left on the dock to wait for him precluded philandering in any variation. Not a tendency easy to suppress for someone who enjoyed flirting. However, his brother had reformed, of that Isil was sure, else he would not tease him about it. Perhaps by the time they returned home triumphant, Nerwen will have succeeded in breaking down the walls of conflict erected by his father's foster-siblings. Then maybe – maybe – Telpë and she could wed.

"Jealousy does not become anyone, especially you, Isil." Telpë was taking what he had said with as little seriousness. "I do have one small worry concerning this generous and accommodating lass, though. She has never heard of anyone called Nowë."

_What?_ He was jerked away from beckoning sleep. Now, his brother tells him this problem? How far from the remnant island have they been tossed? Which was a better direction to search from here, north or south? But then he heard a soft snicker and could sense Telpë grinning.

"She knows only of an ancient lord called Cirdan."

TBC

**= Author's Notes =**

_All elvish is in Sindarin unless otherwise indicated and __underlined__ means I put it together myself – corrections and comments are welcome!_

aleglain – unforsaken (plural) – _eglan_ forsaken (singular) which is both an adjective and a noun with _eglath_ a collective noun

nestor – healer or doctor/physician

nér/nís – elf male/female _Quenya_

fana – raiment, the radiant physical figure of one of the Valar or Maiar _Quenya_ ( fân _Sindarin_)

fëa – spirit _Quenya_

cotyalo – an arena fighter like a boxer, wrestler, or martial arts competitor – cotya (hostile) + tyalië (a sport or game) _Quenya_

arya – 12 hours _Quenya _– In my tales, the 12 hour cycle of the Two Trees. A word that later goes out of use, replaced by aurë.

loa – a year; a cycle of all the seasons _Quenya _– A word that refers to seasonal growth, so probably in use earlier than coranar

"turns 'round" – turn-of-the-rim – echorin (_echor+rhinn_, outer-ring+circle) – appox. 24 hours. With the North Star as the center/hub of a night sky/wheel, a star that touches the horizon will travel at a consistent rate in an imaginary circle/rim, completing the circuit in approximately 24 hours. This is produced by the rotation of the Earth. After the rising of the Moon and the Sun, a time-keeping star was no longer visible for a major part of its daily journey. So, in my tales, echorin is a word that fell out of use to be replaced by aur.

"turns gone" – turn-of-the-stars – idhrin (_în+rhinn_, year+circle) – appox. a year. A complete cycle of seasonal changes in the night sky takes approximately 12 months. This is produced by the tilt of the Earth.

Telparyon – Silver Prince – Celeborn's professional epessë

Tirnadab – an OC, a healer with great skill and little compassion

Halfmerillen – an OC, a maiden, one of the fisher-folk

Hwesta – an OC, seasoned ship's captain, past instructor, and close friend of Celeborn

Khelco – Helcalócë (_Khel-ca-lueca)_ – an OC, champion cotyalo, past mentor, and close friend of Celeborn

Calindor, Máramaica [Maica], and Vanue – OC crewmen and survivors of the wreck

Olestavó and Olattavó – OC sons of Olwë, Eärwën is their younger sister. I guess the boys' parents were unimaginative when it came to names. ;)

Fairëressë – the brothers' swan ship, 'Lone Spirit'

Cirdan – his name literally means 'shipwright', implying he is learned in the craft of making boats

**= Concerning the basic premise =**

Círdan's Name – According to CT, Pengolodh is the only one who tells of the "archaic form of Círdan's name", "a tradition among the Sindar of Doriath". The Professor implies that it was never used after the Shipwright achieved a reputation for his craft.

Conspiracy in Aman – During the Years of the Trees, the Valar had left government in the hands of the Eldar leaders. Ingwë eventually followed the Powers' example and removed the Vanyar to the Holy Mountain to become more or less a moral authority only. The two other kings stayed friendly but did reside at a distance from one other. The princes of the Noldor and the Teleri were not cozy between or within their kindreds. Eärwën and Finarfin appear, to me, to be a bit of an exception.

More and more the younger Noldor lords were falling under Melkor's shadowy manipulation. He enflamed their jealousies and their desire for personal empowerment. They began to vie with one another and even build up private militias in the event of revolt.

"Visions he [Melkor] would conjure in their hearts of the realms that they could have ruled at their own will, in power and freedom in the East... "

"... but now the whisper went among the Elves that Manwë held them captive, so that Men might come and supplant them... many of the Noldor believed, or half believed, the evil words."

"Thus ere the Valar were aware; the peace of Valinor was poisoned."

"Then Melkor set new lies abroad in Eldamar, and whispers came to Fëanor that Fingolfin and his sons were plotting to usurp the leadership of Finwë and the elder line of Fëanor, and to supplant them by leave of the Valar; for the Valar were ill-pleased… [that the Simarils] were not committed to their keeping."

"And when Melkor saw that these lies were smouldering, and that pride and anger were awake among the Noldor, he spoke to them concerning weapons… "

"... and in that time the Noldor began the smithying of swords and axes and spears. Shields also they made displaying the tokens of many houses and kindreds that vied one with another; and these only they wore abroad, and of other weapons they did not speak, for each believed that he alone had received the warning."

– Silmarillion – Of the Silmarils and the Unrest of the Noldor

"... to the Teleri he [Melkor] gave small heed, thinking them of little worth, tools too weak for his designs." – Silmarillion – Of Fëanor and the Chaining of Melkor

But, I think, the Teleri were as usual just taking their time getting to the same place and never really that far behind the Noldor. The way I see it, Olwë's sons would never quite understand why their foster-brother was the lord prince of Tol Eressëa instead of Olestavó. Their sister would always resent being deprived of her best friend's company by Galadhon, who stole the young lady away to be his wife and live far from Alqualondë. One of his sons stealing away her only daughter also would not set well with Ëarwën.


	4. Meeting shipwrecked strangers

**Chapter 3 – The Shipwright meets shipwrecked strangers**

The knock on his chamber door was welcomed by Círdan, and he knew Glinnor shared that sentiment. The business of tithes and dues was always made better by being interrupted, for it was always just that tedious of a chore. Especially for his administrator and friend who, as the Steward of Eglarest, found collections and shortfalls an unappealing aspect of his fiscal responsibilities.

"Enter – please!" he called. The steward gave him a droll grin. But he knew that had they been in his office, Glinnor would have issued the same invitation with the same enthusiasm.

The door opened, and who entered was Orongil, the chief of the Elmoi in Eglarest and its environs, another trusted councilor and an even older friend than Glinnor. The steward had risen from obscurity in Brithombar and had only recently come to this haven.

Orongil's father, the young and newly wed third son of Elmo, had brought his pretty bride to the Falas to live when the city was still hardly a town. They and their followers had come to join up with Círdan's diminishing people, and together they had grown great. The father and son had been instrumental in establishing another settlement, where now Orongil's son assisted his grandfather, the Lord of Brithombar. _A second city is something Elu Thingol, for all the magnificence of Menegroth, cannot boast of._ That thought always pleased Círdan's humble vanity. And for everything the Elmoi had done, he was grateful. The clan had helped the nenwaith become more than left-behind Teleri. His people had become a nation: the Falathrim.

So at first, he was happy to see the clan-lord and would rise from his chair to greet him. But then, he stayed seated behind his desk, for he could tell from his friend's vibrant demeanor that Orongil had a problem he would be more than pleased to slough off onto him, his liege lord. On the other side of the desk though, Glinnor did stand in deference to a prince of the realm.

"Please forgive the disturbance, my lord," politely begged a smiling Orongil.

"That, Sir, depends on what has brought you here." He said this with an arch note of suspicion, since the chieftain was in a good mood and would not mind a little friendly ribbing.

"Not what you may think, my lord," Orongil claimed, his signature grin gleaming.

Which made Círdan smilingly wary. _He does have something up his sleeve._ The clan-lord was also intentionally ignoring Glinnor's presence. Because, the steward was not on the chieftain's good-list at the moment. _But then he hardly ever is._ Yet, whereas Glinnor should have been pleased to go unnoticed, he appeared not to be.

"I bring a petition for an audience with my Lord." This explanation was augmented with a florid bow meant to entertain whilst satisfying the required etiquette.

"Personally?" questioned Glinnor. He feigned great shock at such a thing having occurred. "Who are these incredibly important people?" Then added, with a hint of vindictive glee, "Or do they have you over a barrel?"

Orongil's grin grew wider and tighter, his glinting eyes narrowing, but he remained silent. To Círdan, the chieftain preferring to promote his cause by courteously waiting for his Lord to speak instead of immediately engaging in a verbal skirmish was a clear indication that his request had some importance to it.

"Well, my friend, I do – as ever – rely upon your good judgment." This Círdan said for both their benefits. He beckoned for Orongil to come closer and make his appeal. Unhappily, at the clan-lord's coming nearer, his councilors fell into an exchange of dagger-eyes, and he had to reclaim the chieftain's attention. "Who is it I need hear out so badly that you choose to carry their cause?"

"A quartet of shipwrecked explorers, my lord." Much like his grin, Orongil's tone of voice had grown tighter then when he first came in. "As two of them were of my clan, brought to me for succor. However, their dilemma exceeds my powers to ameliorate. They beseech your aid, and bring what treasure they carry to you, my Lord, in appreciation of your attentive concern for their helpless plight."

"And what will be your share for your invaluable assistance?" asked Glinnor in a snide tone.

"Nothing!" Orongil snapped back, his grin gone. He fixed a steely glare upon the steward. "Tax-collector!"

Glinnor bristled. Not so much at the term itself, but at the intended meanness. The insult would not go unanswered, particularly after such purposeful provocation on his part. He drew breath for a vehement return volley.

"Enough! Both of you!" Círdan quickly interjected. He was not going to let the situation escalate any further. He had had enough. "I have told you both already to leave your personal grievances outside this chamber! One more violation of that order, and I shall impose arbitration upon this botched betrothal." The two of them looked at him in mortified surprise. "Oh yes, I know all about it! You gave me no choice but to pry. So, if you do not want to be dictated to in your own houses – which will result in public humiliation, I assure you – you will conduct yourselves with some decorum in mine."

Both prideful lords, they instantly backed down and sought to regain some dignity by avoiding eye contact and peevishly adjusting their tunics – in alike fashion, as if it were a set drill. Círdan had to struggle to hold back the smile that would undermine the seriousness of his threat. In fact, they were rather reminiscent of cats, who when caught out, will turn ostensibly unruffled and lick at their fur.

Nonetheless, he knew their worst quarrel yet would not be done until Orongil's silly granddaughter was in love with a more eligible candidate for a son-in-law. Hopefully, the young elleth's fickle nature would resolve their conflict sooner rather than later.

"Orongil... " He gestured for the chieftain to continue his plea. A stony look at Glinnor let him know his Lord was put out with the steward for picking a fight.

"As I was saying... " Orongil dared cast a hard glance of his own at Glinnor. "I have assumed the care of these unfortunates, but they seek a craft that may return them to their homeland. Now, I have made it clear that an excellent ship is to be had from any master builder in the city. Particularly when it appears they have the means to purchase one outright. But, their strongbox is literally sealed, and they will not even consider handing over its contents to any but you. If the seal is to be broken, that will be done by you alone. So their leader has sworn."

"This is a strange encumbrance to take on. How can they not open it to help themselves in need, but feel free to make a gift of it to me?" He leaned back in his chair, intrigued. And it occurred to him that engaging his curiosity might have been the motivation for this odd oath.

"Indeed, my lord." Círdan sensed he was about to hear the real reason for Orongil's unusual solicitation on behalf of these wayward strangers. "What is more interesting is that it is not clear where about their land lies. Their leader, in fact they all, have been very circumspect about that." But, there was restrained enthusiasm, not mistrust, behind the clan-lord's words. "However, I suspect that it may be found in the south." He paused, meaning to heighten the dramatic effect of his next words. "... the _far_ south!"

What Orongil was implying was indeed dramatic, even momentous, and clearly he expected an appropriate reaction from his Lord. When that was not forthcoming, he was suddenly at a loss and hastily began offering evidence, endeavoring to get the response he felt his brilliant deduction warranted.

"Their manners! Their accents! Their names! And – "

"And what?" Círdan coldly interrupted. "Speculation is just that: speculation. Oddness is no basis for the conclusion that these survivors are from those that set sail to found a southern haven." Hearing a subtle bitterness in his words, he abruptly realized that he was refuting the possibility simply because he could not bear to believe in Orongil's conclusion and then for it not be true. Too many times past, it had not been true. No one had ever come back. _No one ever will. Not from west or south. _Long ago, he had had to either let go of the hope or die from the disappointment.

Orongil threw up his hands in voiceless frustration. His judgment – which had earlier been credited – was now being questioned. So, he threw down what he obviously considered the most convincing piece of evidence, but was acting resentful that he had to do it. Which angered Cíirdan. _You meant to make yourself look wiser than you are by withholding information!_

"Their faces! They have eledhwaith looks, but – "

"But what?" Círdan interrupted again, thinking to stop him from saying anything more. Only to have the equally irate chieftain raise his voice and discourteously speak over him. Orongil was just fortunate that their friendship was of enough duration to excuse his rudeness!

" – very familiar looks! Círdan, the two brothers have Gilwë's face! At least, that is what Elder Auntie has said, else I would not be bringing them to you!"

He bolted upright in his chair, unsettled by the crashing wave of emotion that swept over him. _Brothers! Brothers with Gilwë's face! _Ringwën! Gilwë's only surviving sister, being just as adventurous as her brother, had sailed with the colonists heading out to follow the southern coast. Never to be heard from again. _Brothers!_ Might they be her children? Had they been purposely sent as proof for him? _Brothers! Adventuring together!_ Just as he and Gilwë, they sworn-brothers, had explored together in the distant and now lost world from before the Great Journey. His hand went to his beard, the beard he did not then have.

"How could you tell him that?!" hissed Glinnor in an angry whisper. "And in such a way!"

"I had to!" complained Orongil, his own voice rasping. "I tried not to!"

Círdan looked up at them. They had no need to mute their heartfelt concern over his peace of mind. Their faces alone would have told him how much they cared. _Oh, how I wish you were as good of friends to each other as you are to me!_ Gathering himself, he rose and left his desk to head for the door, intent on seeing these mysterious supplicants at once.

"Please you, my lord!" begged Orongil. "Allow me to bring them to you!"

"Consider your dignity, my lord!" Glinnor simultaneously joined in. "Wait here, please!"

"No, I wish to see them without their being any more prepared." Truth was he could not force himself to wait. "Where are they?"

"The Watch Room," was Orongil's reluctant answer.

"Good," he said as he swiftly exited. That room being private, no one else would have joined them.

The three high lords strode through the halls and up the stairs to where Orongil had left the four strangers to await his summons; Círdan plowing ahead with the other two keeping close behind in his speedy wake. When they reached the room, he allowed neither lord, nor the servant waiting upon the visitors, to open the door for him. Without a word, he quietly stepped inside. His councilors followed him in, with the servant silently closing the door behind them.

The Watch Room was Círdan's personal observation deck and located on the highest floor of the enormous house long ago dubbed the Shipwright's Palace. The corbelled tuorelle bulged out from a corner, in the very shadow of the taller watchtower. Unlike the tower, which had an open turret at the top, this room had only three wide angled casements that formed an enormous bowed window; open and unglazed with foul weather shutters that were almost always folded back. Even at this elevation, much lower than the watchtower, one could observe the goings-on from the palace docks to the private berths that ranged along the inner crescent of the municipal wharfs. There were other watchtowers surrounding the bay, each overlooking their own slice of the extensive harbor. The high-seat the Lord of the Falas was a large and sprawling habitation with much enterprise taking place inside and out of the fortified residence of the Lord Círdan.

The four foreigners were standing in the windowed crescent, two on each side of one of the round support pillars. Their backs were to the door as they were looking outward over the harbor, and they were chatting unconcernedly. Círdan did not need any great wisdom to tell him which of the ellyn were possibly Ringwën's descendants. Their hair was starlight captured; as pale and shimmering as few but Gilwë's kindred possessed. Standing next to each other, the brothers looked equally tall and svelte in form. But, the one he would judge to be much younger was broader in the shoulders with a physic more muscular than that of his brother. However, the older brother spoke with an intelligence and authority that left no question as to why others might chose to follow his lead. _For surely, he is their leader._ The one who had guilefully promised away their wealth.

The other two ellyn were less tall than the brothers and dark-haired. One was on crutches, and he wore also a set of wood and metal braces on his legs that went from ankle to hip, essentially splints with articulated knee joints. He rested a shoulder against the pillar for support, where his comrades leaned on their hands against the sill. The fourth fellow was very much older than the other three, and stood in distracted silence. Although with them, he was not swimming in the eager anticipation that swirled around the younger ellyn.

As Círdan listened to their meandering comments on the view, he caught the accent Orongil had mentioned. To be sure, it was not the mode of speech that had become widespread and common. A clear indication they came from outside of Eglador and beyond Menegroth's influence. There was perhaps a hint of a tarawaith lilt. And another nuance... _almost Noldorin..._

The eldest, the distracted fellow, suddenly raised a hand to his chest, as if he had felt a sudden pang. He quickly turned round, his down-turned face troubled, and stepped away from the window – only to look up and seen that he and his companions were no longer alone. Nevertheless, he did not speak up to inform his leader that others were present. Instead, he froze; staring wide-eyed, hand to heart, with his lips parted in suspended speech. Círdan sighed. The sight of his beard sometimes did that to people. _Except, that the fellow is looking past me._ He turned to see... _Glinnor?_ His friend was staring back in the same disconcerted manner.

It was then that he could not longer resist the truth, and it flooded in, filling his heart and spirit.

_By the Ulumúri! Of course!!_ And he too was struck and held spell-bound.

Of a sudden, he noticed an ache in his upper arm. It loosed him, and he looked to find Orongil squeezing his arm. His friend's face was knotted in querulous worry, not only for his Lord but for his fellow councilor. The anxious chieftain had not yet figured it out. Círdan placed a hand over Orongil's hand and smiled. Not only to reassure him, but because of the unbidden mental picture of the clan-lord's transformed face, when told that somehow the blatantly obvious had evaded the normally shrewd ellon. Clever Orongil had intended to dazzle him with news of the lost colony – and instead had blind-sided himself!

Glinnor drew a ragged breath, and the unaware survivors turned around at the sound. Círdan felt an ironic amusement that none of them were in the least startled by his beard, but that they were very startling to him.

The fellow on crutches had expertly come about as if he were stilt-walking a ladder, like a workman too lazy to climb down to move it to a new spot. Although terribly crippled, the ellon was full of bright good spirits, which would not be dampened by adversity or the arresting sight of an ancient lord.

The younger of the brothers was a revelation. He had elegantly spun in place and into a poised readiness that reminded Círdan immediately of young Elmo. _On the hunt and ready to leap to the chase!_ Any doubts he had left about their lineage were swept away. The older brother remained unflustered when he turned and realized that they had obviously been watched for some time. It bespoke the kind of aplomb gained only at court. _Something to be expected in an eldest child._ However, aside from the difference in their physical stature, there was very little dissimilarity between the two brothers. Their bright eyes were not grey but shining green. _As green as those of Oioloth_. Another clue which Orongil – the chieftain's auntie too – had unwisely discounted. But upon reconsideration, he had to assume that the survivors had helped everyone mistake who they actually were.

To his credit as their leader, after only a glancing exchange with Círdan, the older brother turned his attention to his motionless comrade's plight.

"Calindor?" he softly queried, so as not to startle him.

At the sound of this name, Glinnor broke free of their shared trance and cried out, "My son!"

"Papa!" The ellon who reached out a trembling hand was not a valiant mariner that had braved shipwreck. He was but a quaking child. One who had been wandering lost – bewildered and yearning – but was now at last found.

Father and son rushed into each other's arms and wept for joy.

Gladness for his friend and the loved one returned welled up in Círdan, filling his eyes with happy tears. Tears fell from the eyes of Calindor's elated companions, while their faces also shone with great gladness for a friend. And for themselves, as well. Here was the first real reward gained from their daring.

The hard grip upon Círdan's arm painfully tighten. The emotional embrace had enlightened the chieftain, but there was no smile upon Orongil's face. Círdan had thought that they would be laughing upon his realizing that through all the time the clan-lord had sheltered these strangers, he had utterly missed seeing the wonderful truth. Instead, Círdan felt the gravity of the chieftain's growing alarm. Thus, he realized that he too had been slow in understanding. Only now did he grasp the adverse ramifications of this return from Valinor, and how much greater they were for the Elmoi than for any other people of the Eglath.

As the eldest son of the eldest son, the older brother had claim to any hereditary entitlements held by any of Elmo's other children. The peace and order, which the clan nobility strove to maintain in the long-settled realms and newly-settled lands of Beleriand, could be completely undone by the appearance of this new heir. He was a threat to the clan's carefully wrought, but brittle, balance of power.

TBC

**= Author's Notes =**

_All elvish is in Sindarin unless otherwise indicated and __underlined__ means I put it together myself – corrections and comments are welcome!_

eldar/elda – elves/elf - the name Oromë gave the quendi who would follow him to Aman

eledhwaith – star-folk These were Elwë's people within the Lindar.

nenwaith – lake-folk These were Nowë's people within the Lindar.

tawarwaith – forest-folk These were Lenwë's people within the Lindar.

Elmoi – the kindred and clan of Elmo – Elmo and Oioloth had other children, after Galadhon, who in turn had children of their own. Elu Thingol and Melian rule; the Elmoi govern.

Máramaica [Miaca] – OC friend of the brothers, as did practically all the members of the quest, he has kin in Beleriand

Calindor – OC friend of the brothers, a contemporary of Galadhon and who was also sent as a child to Aman

Glinnor – OC father of Calindor, a friend of Círdan, the Steward of Eglarest

Orongil – OC friend of Círdan, lord chief of the Elmoi living in and around Eglarest, a grandson of Elmo

Oioloth – an OC wife for Elmo, she is the younger sister of Denethor, son of Lenwë

Gilwë – an OC father for Elwë, Olwë, and Elmo, he appears in another fanfic: _Daeredair_.

Ringwën – an OC sister for Gilwë

**= Concerning the basic premise =**

Círdan's Beard – About this unique feature, the Professor says that the Shipwright was merely old, in the "third cycle of life". Where then are all those others of his generation that would also show signs of extreme age? Does it mean none but he, of all in the host that embarked on the Great Journey, were near as old as the first who awakened? Where are those other ancients? Were they all Unwilling and did not embark on the March? Do they shave? Or did death and the Dark Rider get all of their number, but Nowë? I sincerely hope that was not the case. Perhaps those later released from Mandos in Aman had their youthfullness restored. What I would like to think is that, by using extensive Elven magic in defense of his people before the arrival of Oromë, the Shipwright aged much more quickly than an Elf normally would.

The Route to the Blessed Realm – I think the Eldar were lead northward by Oromë from Cuiviénen with the idea that they would travel by land around the Great Sea to Valinor. The Eglath in Beleriand would certainly consider this as the route to take, if later they decided to proceed on their own. It was during the Great Journey that the way had become blocked by a post-war effect. After the loss of the Lamps and defeating Melkor, Ennor settled into some dark changes. The north became colder and colder, allowing a dangerous icecap to slowly form. Eventually, the ice-flows blocked safe passage on foot. Thus, travel plans had to change as the straggling line of Eldar made it to Beleriand. Ulmo had to transport them on an island across the separating waters. For if the island was always the Valar's plan, the quendi hosts should have been led due east to the sea or, after getting that far, followed the Anduin to the coast. There should be a really good reason to make the Eldar cross the daunting White Mountains, then the Blue Mountains, before ending up encamped in Beleriand, just to wait for transport to southern climes.


	5. Greeting shipwrecked strangers

**Chapter 4 – The Shipwright greets shipwrecked strangers**

Círdan gently pried Orongil's vice-like grip from his arm and rested a comforting hand of his own upon his friend's back. The chieftain looked to him, and he returned an encouraging nod to tell Orongil that he did indeed have his support in handling any crisis of government, whether that was caused by a total stranger or the descendent of his own sworn-brother.

The set of the Orongil's mouth was firm as he heaved a determined sigh. The foreseeable future of the Elmoi had taken a turn, and if the Prince chose to accommodate this grandson at the expense of his other children, the current expectations of his faction within the clan might not come to fruition. Even so, he would do as always and work together with his Lord towards the best for the realm, not just for his family.

Círdan raised his hand to press his friend's shoulder. He was grateful for the chieftain's loyalty to all of the people of the Falas.

Having found his bearings, Orongil stepped forward to undertake the formalities, and thereby act to keep the ship of state on course despite the threat of foul weather.

Which made Círdan think even better of him. By proceeding with introductions, his friend and councilor had also chosen to set aside the personal offence given by outsiders whom he had kindly sheltered and who had, whether by lies or omissions, purposefully deceived him. Círdan caught the eye of the elder brother and did not withhold a disapproving expression from his face. _I would not speak any more on your behalf until you had apologized_. His opinion was clearly understood.

"My guests!" Orongil called. By hand or kerchief or sleeve, the three younger ellyn wiped dry their teary eyes and gave sober attention to their host. The brothers came away from the window and across the chamber. But, the elder brother as leader gestured for the crippled fellow, who was once more resting against the pillar, to stay where he was rather than make the cumbersome trip across the room. When he stood before clan-lord, the band's leader also gestured a request for his host to refrain, so that he might speak with him first. The chieftain, likely anticipating what his guest wished to say, obliged.

"Lord Orongil, I must apologize for not being as honest with you as you deserved. My only excuse is that past unpleasantries advised caution. That as few people as possible should know the truth about us." He straightened his shoulders and inclined his head with eyes downcast. "I respect you, my lord, and am beholden to your generous assistance. It was never my intention to cause you undue concern or embarrassment. Only to keep my comrades safe."

"I understand." Not unexpectedly, Orongil's tone of voice was diplomatic rather than cordial. "And you must understand, when I do the same and put my people's welfare ahead of yours, I do not mean you harm." The offender nodded before raising his eyes; his expression also neutral. "Good, and from now on, let us be more honest with each other. For honesty is always best." When offered a hand in agreement, Orongil clasped arms with him. But, although the apology was graciously accepted, the clan-lord kept an emotional distance from his kinsman.

Círdan sighed. It was sad when friendship was blocked by politics. They were less alike in appearance than might be expected of close cousins, but they were very alike in heart and spirit. Plainly, the two of them had been on the path to becoming friends, but now the chieftain felt constrained. Like himself with Thingol, Orongil was expected to stand with his lord father on important matters, and who knew what either of those lords' stance would be when confronted with a new contestant for rulership in Beleriand.

Orongil resumed his task, his natural tendency to smile noticeably weak. He stepped aside to clear the way for those he would present to the Shipwright.

"My Lord, " he announced. "Heron Calasilmo... Galadhonion."

Donning a noble countenance, the prince took a few steps forward and bowed. This was accomplished so smoothly that Círdan's felt his earlier impression that Calasilmo had spent time at court confirmed. Even closer now, he could see that the prince was not that much older than his cousin's son. Galadhon had apparently wed rather late for being one of Elmo's children. _But, perhaps that is the leisurely manner of marriage in paradise._

Upon his straightening up, Círdan gazed deep into Calasilmo's sparkling eyes, and he saw something more than the starlight that shone from within all the eledhwaith. This other light was less glinting, more glowing – pervasive and pure. It was the same light as in Elu Thingol's eyes. _The Light of the Trees!_ Another clue Orongil had missed or misinterpreted! He looked at the other two young ellyn and saw the Light in them.

"His brother, Heron Teleporno."

The younger prince came forward and stood at Calasilmo's right shoulder. He bowed; his every movement exceedingly reminiscent of his male forbearers. A feature Círdan was beginning to find disconcerting. But, there was not much chance of remedying it. Galadhon had been so young when sent away with his uncle that one could not as easily say how much of a resemblance there was in the brothers to their father rather than to Gilwë. Or in the younger brother's case, to Elmo.

"Their comrade, Hír Máramaica Aelinion." The crippled ellon stood up on his crutches and bowed his head. The face he raised beamed with optimistic hope, and Círdan understood his hope that his father's name might be known to the Shipwright. Unhappily though, he did not know the name.

"And their comrade, Hír Calindor Glinnorion." Heads turned with anticipation to Glinnor and his son. However, the pair ignored them, showing no sign of ending their embrace or whispered conversation, so Orongil continued on.

"Here is my liege, Círdan Aran Falas, Lord of all the land that meets the Belegaer.

Círdan bowed to his visitors, then said, "Welcome, travelers! Here you shall find comfort and rest!" He addressed their leader personally saying, "Calasilmo, son of Galadhon! I loved your great-grandfather as my brother. I love your grandfather as my nephew. I fondly remember your father as a child. Come! Let me greet you as my close kinsman!" He held open his arms to receive him.

Calasilmo hesitated, a bit unsure about the effusive invitation. But after looking to Orongil, who gave his endorsement, then back to Círdan, he smiled, pleased to accept. He came and embraced the ancient lord wholeheartedly. Upon release, they smiled at each other in instant mutual affection. Círdan kissed Calasilmo's brow, and the prince blushed. Círdan's amused surprise at this bashfulness prompted his newest nephew to explain.

"Forgive me, my lord, I have been but a grandson and to none save Olue Ciriáran."

"Is that what he calls himself now?" Círdan's grin broadened. To hear _this_ epessë for Olwë! But, was not Calasilmo also a nephew to Olwë's sons? He was suddenly very eager to learn all that had happened to his departed kin and kindred.

"No, my lord," chuckled Calasilmo. "Our people call him that."

"Ah, then I take it, this sign of appreciation has not changed him?"

"If you mean he still does not demonstrate fond feelings any differently in private than in public, then no," was the cheerfully-ironic response, "he has not changed."

Nonetheless, though the king's gestures of affection were as ever less than lavish, it was clear to Círdan that this equally wry grandson knew that Olwë loved him. Where apparently, his uncles did not. When Calasilmo stepped back, he offered the same invitation to his delighted brother. The younger prince's hug was more emphatic and provoked a wheezy chortle before being loosed and kissed.

"You have your grandfather's strength of limb, Teleporno!" Like particular Elmoi, this brother had a very charming smile besides.

"So, Grandfather Olwë has said. But please, Uncle Círdan, will you not call me Telpë?"

"If that is your preference, of course – Telpë!." He flicked a glance at Calasilmo, and Telpë's eyes twinkled as only the eyes of a sibling bent on mischief could.

"My brother? Well, I always just call him Isil. In fact, we all do, and so you should too. Not _his_ preference, of course, but he has learned to answer to it." Isil cast an exasperated expression to the ceiling, since it would be no more effective if sent in his brother's direction.

Círdan laughed, well entertained by both his new nephews. When Telpë moved back, he motioned for them to please step aside, so he could address Máramaica.

"I wish that I could welcome you on behalf of your family, Máramaica. But, I am sorry; I do not know your father. Perhaps, your grandfather?"

"Dollo, my lord." The ellon's optimism had not faded even yet. Círdan did not like having nothing for him but another disappointing answer.

"I am sorry, sir. I know naught of that name, either. Nonetheless, you are as welcome as are your companions." He walked over to Máramaica – who was somewhat taken aback by such deference – and placed his hands upon the young fellow's shoulders. "Consider this house your home until we have found your kin, however long that may take." The Shipwright's thoughtfulness almost overwhelmed Máramaica's ability to speak. His eyes welled up anew.

"You are generous beyond words to thank you, my lord," he struggled to say. And still, he found a smile. "And... and everyone calls me Maica."

"Then, I shall also – Maica." He gave Maica's shoulders a squeeze before releasing him.

Happy to have encouraged someone he knew would be a future friend, he moved to the center of the room and motioned for everyone to join him there. They came and gathered around, including Maica; all eager to hear his wisdom concerning this momentous occasion.

"Glinnor, you too must attend," he commanded. "I need your council. You and Calindor may have all the time you wish later."

"Yes, my lord, of course," answered the steward, and he brought them both together to stand before Círdan. "My lord, this is my eldest, Calindor. My Lord, Círdan." Calindor bowed as well as he might for being bound tight as he was by his father's possessive arm around his shoulders. Círdan returned the bow.

"Welcome, Calindor," he said, with a warm smile. "Though I doubt my greeting compares to your father's."

"Nothing compares," stated Calindor, his voice thick with emotion.

"Come now, Glinnor. Lend him to me for just a moment." The proud steward released his son, so that his friend could embrace him. But, as soon as Calindor stepped back, Glinnor reclaimed him, sheltering him under his wing just as closely as before. Calindor raised his arm around his father's back and hung that hand off Glinnor's farther shoulder.

"Allow me to introduce my friends, Papa," he said.

Congenial bows, as could be contrived given the hindrances, were exchanged between Calindor's father and his son's younger comrades; and the strong emotions stirred up earlier by their reunion rose again, preventing the accompaniment of polite phrases of more than a few words length.

"So, are we now all nicely acquainted?" Círdan archly mused. Which evoked appreciative laughter. "Then, let us speak of great matters."

When he had everyone's full attention, he surveyed the circle of faces. It was Calasilmo's resolve, shining as brightly as Maica's optimism, that revealed to him what boded ahead in the fog of time.

"Isil, Orongil has said to me that your ship was wrecked, but that you wished to build another... in order to return to Valinor?"

Isil nodded in solemn confirmation. Orongil looked sharply at his cousin. Upon understanding their true origin, he had disregarded that stated intention as merely a ploy to get to see the Lord. However, Isil had indeed meant it, and Círdan shared his friend's frustration at the impossibility of that ideal goal.

"If you have seen the shipyards, nephew, you have seen the limitations of our craft. My own works included. One of our ships has less chance then yours of arriving safely in the far west."

"My lord?" Isil courteously ventured to speak. To which Círdan gave his permission. The prince's voice was grave. "Our misfortunes were due solely to my inadequacy, not that of our vessel. I bear the blame for its destruction... and the loss of the crew."

"Please you, my lord!" interrupted Telpë. "What he says is not so!" Isil's visible displeasure at his brother's terrible manners did not deter the younger prince from explaining his outburst, with or without leave from anyone. "He is not to blame. He was fooled by Ossë into thinking he would help us. Else, our ship could have easily made it to your harbor."

"But, it did not withstand the reef," Orongil quietly pointed out.

"And so, it would not have withstood the Helcaraxë," agreed Círdan. He was sympathetic to the guilt Isil felt, and gently asked him, "Is that when you sought the Maia's help? Very understandable when in those dire straits…" Besides, what was one foolish decision weighed against the monumentally foolish choice, by all the crew, to risk their lives to find their forsaken kin.

"No, my lord." Isil became guarded, and Círdan worried he had stumbled into an even more sensitive subject for his nephew. "I called upon him when we ran out of drinking water. We knew, as well as any, that we would not safely reach these shores by following the northern coast. Therefore, we came over open seas, where ice and shallows would not be a danger."

"But, where we did encounter other perils that might well sink a less sturdy ship," emphatically added his brother. "And made it through!"

"Stop interrupting, Telpë," Isil flatly warned him.

Neither Círdan nor Orongil could respond, they were so astounded. It was Glinnor who gasped in wonder and spoke.

"Open seas?" He turned to his son, amazed. "You _crossed_ the Great Sea?"

"Yes... " was Calindor's hesitant reply. He looked to his young leader, who silently gave his leave to speak openly, probably for the first time since they had landed. "Isil was our pilot," he proudly told his father and the other lords. "He figured out how and by what stars to find Beleriand again. And he will get us back." Calindor turned a worshipful gaze upon Calasilmo. "He is a genius." Whereupon, the prince turned crimson, and his brother ungraciously snorted back a laugh.

"Gwanur... can you... ?" asked Orongil. The chieftain was so stunned he had fallen back into the familiarity they had obviously had before this audience. The mortified Isil would not look at his cousin, only at the pair of boots opposite him.

"Yes. I can guide a ship to Aman... by the stars."

Círdan's suspended speech was not entirely due to the shocking courage it took to sail across the sea instead of following the coastline, nor to claims of genius. But, more to his having been personally warned – by the Powers themselves – not to try the very same thing. For if he ever did, he would certainly die in vain. He had not spoken of it to anyone. Not ever. His doom, They had decreed in that moment on the beach, was other than drowning in a futile attempt to catch up to the island bearing away the Teleri before sight of it was lost. And here was the reward he had waited ennin for. This moment, right now, was the time foretold when his patience would prove wise. His doom had arrived. _Finally._

"Such advanced navigation... is beyond our skill or knowledge," admitted Orongil.

"As is such a ship beyond our ability to construct," added Glinnor.

"No longer! For we are here to help you!" Telpë's enthusiasm simply overrode any obedience to Isil's express order. "You are no longer the Forsaken!" he proclaimed.

"We have long ceased to think of ourselves as abandoned," Orongil coolly informed him.

The restrained resentment behind his words left no question that the clan-lord took offence at Telpë's presumptive declaration. Which squelched the younger cousin far more effectively than had any of his brother's admonishments. Círdan allowed himself a cynical smile. Those who dwelt in Aman were going to find it hard to understand that there were people who might not seek a home with them there. And that choosing to stay here did not mean they had become Unwilling.

"As to your capacity to help, Telpë," he interceded. "When I look at your hands, that is something I doubt." Although the prince bore calluses evident of hard labor, it was obvious he was no carpenter. None of them were. "Your shipbuilder was among the drowned, Isil?"

"No," was the prince's calm reply. He looked up at Círdan; his original aplomb recovered. "In fact, we had no master craftsmen aboard at all. We brought their knowledge with us instead."

"And how did you do that, gwadorion?" Even if a genius, how could someone unskilled and inexperienced show him how to improve upon craftsmanship no other had come close to equaling?

At his brother's indication, Telpë readily went to one side of the entry door and picked up a heavy medium-sized chest, bringing it to be set down across the arms of a nearby chair. Círdan figured this was the treasure Orongil had spoken of. The lid was sealed all-way-round, and it was bound with metal straps. The hinged clasp was encased in a molded seal.

"Everything you need is inside," said Isil. With the showy wave of an open hand, Telpë presented the chest to him. A knowing grin hovered behind the younger prince's closed lips.

He hesitated, suddenly unsettled. Everything he needed? Mere treasure could not buy the expertise needed. Surely, the brothers realized that. So, what exactly was inside? _A gift from the Valar?_ Was this about the vision shown to him of a flying ship? Would a ship built by him, using this gift, take to the sky and fly with the gulls above the waves? He turned to Orongil so that he might keep his hands clasped together and no one would see them shaking.

"You deserve to do the honors, my friend. There are tools in the cabinet over there."

Telpë leap to fetch the tools for the chieftain. Orongil carefully sawed off the embossed seal, intact, with a wire and passed it on to him. Strangely, there was nothing distinctive or evocative about the white tree depicted on the weathered disc. Although, it might once have been chased with silver. But, there was no tingle of fate, which he sometimes felt when beholding a symbol of authority.

Hammer and small chisel in hand, the clan-lord broke through the bands. He worked to pry open the clasp, whose lock had been welded solid. When that was accomplished, he handed off the tools, back to his younger cousin. The wire proved useful again for slicing through the sealed seams of the lid. After glancing over for final permission, Orongil took hold of the flapping clasp and raised the lid.

TBC

**= Author's Notes =**

_All elvish is in Sindarin unless otherwise indicated and __underlined__ means I put it together myself – corrections and comments are welcome!_

hir/hiril – sir or lord/dame or lady

heron/heryn – lord or prince/ lady or princess

epessë – after-name - a nickname or given as a title of honor or admiration

gwanur – kin

aran – king (also translates as 'Lord' for it means the ruler of a realm, not just royalty)

gwadorion/gwadoriel – nephew/niece brother-son/brother-daughter who is a child of a brother who is not a sibling

**= Concerning the basic premise =**

The Grinding Ice – Although they sailed in the swan ships of the Amanyar Teleri, the flowing pack-ice halted the Exiles' return to Beleriand. Upon reaching the frozen gap between continents, even after all they had dared and endured, many talked of going back. Sailing through the Helecaxë was that daunting a prospect – truly dire straits.

During this delay, Fëanor abandoned Fingolfin's people rather than deal with them any longer. A wind, either fortunate or contrived, blew from the north-west and took the absconded ships "east and somewhat south" so "he passed over without loss" making it to land at Losgar. He had the ships burned expressly to prevent anyone from going back to get those left for dead. Thus, Fingolfin and his people had no choice. They managed to cross the ice on foot. Many died. Still, many lived. But, the Professor says that living in exile would slowly drain the Noldor of the strength that brought them through this trial. If an Exile host had attempted a return journey by this path in later times, all would have perished.

The Warning and Doom Given to Círdan –

"Then, it is said, he stood forlorn looking out to sea, and it was night, but far away he could see a glimmer of light upon Eressëa ere it vanished into the West. Then, he cried aloud: 'I will follow that light, alone if none will come with me, for the ship that I have been building is now almost ready.' But, even as he said this he received in his heart a message, which he knew to come from the Valar, though in his mind it was remembered as a voice speaking in his own tongue. And the voice warned him not to attempt this peril; for his strength and skill would not be able to build any ship able to dare the winds and waves of the Great Sea for many years yet. 'Abide now that time, for when it comes then will your work be of utmost worth, and it will be remembered in song form nay ages after.' 'I obey,' Cirdan answered, and then it seemed to him that he saw (in a vision maybe) a shape like a white boat, shining above him, that sailed west through the air and as it dwindled in the distance it looked like a star of so great a brilliance that it cast a shadow of Círdan upon the strand where he stood."

"From that night onwards Cirdan received a foresight touching all matters of importance, beyond the measure of all other Elves upon Middle-earth."

– Círdan – Last Writings – The Peoples of Middle-earth – The History of Middle-earth

Similar to other last writings, "features of this account" are missing or in contradiction to the Silmarillion and particularly LOTR and its appendices.


	6. A prince is given a mission

**Chapter 5 – The Silver Tree Prince is given an important mission**

Círdan held his breath. Hoping yet half-dreading that within the sea chest would be a gift sent by the Powers. His nervous fingers tightened, and small flakes broke off from the brittle edge of the detached tree-figured seal he held.

The weathered lid resisted and squeaked like an old door as Orongil forced it to open.

And there inside was –

... mundane things. Although brimming with a tightly packed array of different sized boxes and wrappered shapes, he sensed there was no numinous object within, hidden or otherwise disguised. His pent breath let out in a silent sigh of disappointment instead of whispered awe. The brilliant flying ship would remain no more than a haunting vision. The promise of reunion with people long departed would remain unfulfilled.

Then he saw, made fast in the curved lid of the chest, a thick pad of folded parchments. The top sheet bore an indicative drawing. _Ship plans?!_ He was shocked that any responsible shipwright charged with keeping such precious pages safe would allow them out his guardianship to suffer probable destruction. A sudden, unbidden smile came to his face. This was what Isil had meant when he said everything needed was inside! _What other prizes have you persuaded away from their keepers, my genius nephew?_ This collection could turn out to be as astounding as the daring crossing of the Great Sea!

As if in an answer to his thought, Telpë stepped up and chose in particular a small oblong box from out of the rest. He brought it to him, respectfully holding it out on the palms of two flat hands for him to take. The young ellon looked confident that he would be pleased with the offering. He gave Telpë the weathered seal in exchange for the box.

Therein was a metal canister, bearing embossed figures of fish playfully swimming through shiny etched waves. Inside of that, several thin cylinders sat nestled within each other, small to large. His eyes captured by its simple mystery, he blindly tossed the empty box to his nephew, who deftly caught it with one hand. Clear plugs of glass closed off the openings at each end of the object. _A spyglass?_ But, it was too short in length to be very effective. The instrument was obviously contrived to expand.

"It is called a telescope," a now grinning Telpë told him.

A name rooted in the ancient tongue. _So, a spyglass indeed._ He fleetingly wondered if Telpë had told its name to him because he thought his ancient Uncle could more easily ken the thing by knowing its name or out of simple condescendence. As if such technology had to be unknown to the unfortunate Eglath.

He gently pulled the ends away for each other, expecting a wobbly tube to result. However, each segment was firmly saddled within the next. _Cleverly done... _With anticipation, he held the smaller opening to one eye and looked out, through the wide window, over the harbor to the farthest watchtower. _So clear! So far!_ The magnification was startling compared to the best spyglass that he possessed. He handed it to Orongil, urging him with an enthusiastic gesture to try it.

The chieftain inelegantly swore when he looked through it. He returned it, and Círdan passed it to Glinnor, who exclaimed his amazement with more decorum than had his fellow councilor, but with the same degree of wonder. Lowering the telescope, the steward looked expectantly to his Lord.

In fact, they all were looking to him. Expecting the Shipwright to speak wisely. Expecting the Lord to decide what would happen next. For a long moment, he silently returned their stares. And in that moment, it struck him that the brother princes' intention to sail west with passengers had been thwarted as thoroughly as had his own attempt to do the same. Although, before he himself had suffered devastating shipwreck. He held out his hand, and Glinnor returned the remarkable spyglass. He carefully collapsed the instrument and handed it to Telpë to replace in its box then to its spot in the chest.

"I wonder," he pondered aloud, "whether even one of you would have survived, if Ossë had known of this treasure trove." He directly asked of Isil, "What will you do if I can build you your ship?" And received no different an answer than before.

"Go back," the prince replied with conviction. He walked over and placed his hand upon his brother's shoulder and stretched out the other hand to rest upon their comrade Maica's shoulder. "And take as many others of family and kin as will fit. That was and is our quest."

Next to him, Círdan could feel Orongil's relief. This came not, he knew, from hearing confirmation that what the brothers had already said about wishing to return to their own land they had truly meant. His relief was solely because they were Galadhon's sons. Any other kinsmen the clan-lord would have been eager to have linger longer with him, happy to have the chance to recruit them as allies to his faction ere they returned south. He looked over at his good friend. Seeing Orongil's face, more was revealed to him.

The chieftain was not even considering that his and his cousins' paternal grandfather might return with them. And he realized that neither would it occur to Thingol that his ever-faithful brother would leave Beleriand for Eldamar. _Especially not now..._ Elmo was well along the path to becoming an aran in his own right. _Whether or not that is what is wanted._ He drew a troubled breath. _Oioloth... _Elmo's wise wife, not the Prince himself, would be the one to decide their communal fate. For she still held to heart her husband's likely long-forgotten promise made ere they were wed. But, now was not the right time to advise anyone that their assumptions could not be counted on.

"We should inform Brithombar and Menegroth," Glinnor abruptly counseled; precisely because his Lord was not, as desired, forthcoming with instructions.

"I am not so sure... " His uncertainty was unsettling to everyone, but he was hesitant for Isil and Telpë's sakes. Despite their encounter with Ossë, they seemed unaware of a threat to anyone meaning to sail west. Whatever the outcome, as before, those left behind would be greatly affected. He looked at his two most trusted councilors, from one to the other. "What do you think would happen if – despite this bank of knowledge – we once again cannot build a ship sturdy enough to cross?"

"Heartbreak over those lost in the attempt," said Glinnor. "And for those that had hoped to go next. Anger over once more unfulfilled promises. Loss of trust in we who proposed this feat. "

"Disruption," added Orongil. "Disorder." His face became drawn. "Just when things have been put on a steadier course."

Círdan understood what Orongil meant. As did Glinnor. It was something they would not say aloud, least call it back into existence. _Bloodshed..._ The unprecedented outbreak of deadly violence in the new settlements had been brought under control at great cost to the Elmoi. No one, but especially anyone of that nothrim, wanted for it to return.

Through every previous upheaval – the disappearance of their King, being left behind in Ennor, meeting the new race of the Dwarves, the climatic return of Elwë with Melian, the invasion of menacing fell creatures, the unexpected arrival of the Nandor – it was Thingol's youngest brother who had carried on imposing order and bringing justice. However, Elmo could accomplish this only with the help of his numerous kin: children, cousins and in-laws, ellon and elleth alike. The King was dependent upon their loyal governance in his name.

In most places, as in the Falas, the Elmoi was welcome. The nothrim held their leaders and members to a strict code of fairness, if not exactly honor. Yet, not all were glad to have the clan lord over them. Rival families wanted their influence and power for themselves. Worse, as Elmo's Nos increased, within itself there arose sharp rivalries between individuals and cadet households. The clan's solidarity was being constantly undermined even as the Prince sought to insure Thingol's rule.

It was however the new wave of outward expansion, begun when it was made safer than ever before to travel in the wilderness, that had become Elmo's worst trial. Rapid dispersion began to outpace the appointment of fit leaders, and the bonds of fealty grew slack. The ambitions of the ignoble were fired up along with those of the noble. Would-be-princes began to take rule by force instead of acclaim. Not many cared to follow Elmo's example of a measured pace of ascendance. Thus, chaos and fighting broke out throughout the frontier lands. Quendi began killing quendi to gain power.

For a short time, the new settlements became a battleground in a struggle over sovereignty. It was only after the Prince had ruthlessly settled his clan's internal differences that they were able to depose the illegitimate lords – some of which were from among themselves – and bring a semblance of peace and order to those dwelling outside the three established realms. But, it was only a semblance. The struggle to maintain unity under one King went on. Were another royal prince to arise to take away, without consent or for that matter be given it as his due, any of the holdings of his kin who had invested themselves and their families' fortunes into the new balance of power... It would once again factionalize nothrim loyalties. Rule in all the realms – new, old, and to come – could be destabilized. Without the Elmoi as peacemakers, the killing would come back.

"You think we should keep this secret?" asked Glinnor, not hiding a sensibility about the repercussions if word did leak out after making that choice.

"Yes and no. As a beginning, we should assess the provided plans and tools. Compile a list of the materials needed and their availability. When we are confident of our capability to build, we shall speak to those who will commence the work. Telling them honestly that I aspire to make a ship greater than any made before. And leave its ultimate use to reveal itself. Which in time, it will." _Then who knows but that another forewarning may come…_

"Keeping a project of this significance hidden behind a façade of normality for that long will not be easy," declared Orongil. He looked sharply at his cousin Isil, intentionally prompting a further statement of commitment from him, and Isil obliged.

"You better than any know that we do not share what no one needs to know. We have always been circumspect about our quest." A troubling shadow like that of a swift cloud crossing a bright sky passed over his face, although his expression remained determined. "But now, our success rests on the gift intended to be left behind. Perforce, we must confide our need and beseech your help. Our fate is in your hands... " He indicated all three elders with a sweep of his hand. Dropping both hands to his sides, he turned fully to Círdan. "...and our faith is in you." He bowed his head. "We shall do as you command, my lord."

Círdan gave him a slow nod in solemn acceptance of his trust. He looked at Telpë, concerned that he might oppose his elder brother's pledge of obedience. Instead, the younger prince beamed with satisfaction. Which strangely felt more worrisome than his showing indications of rebellion.

"Still, Thingol and Elmo must be informed," reiterated Orongil. "They must prepare for what may come of our efforts, whether we succeed or we fail. When shall they be told if not now?"

"Verily," agreed Glinnor. "And we need to be as careful in the choosing of the messenger as much as the wording of the message," he advised. "It should be one of us here, my Lord. Someone who will not give up our true plans under duress or otherwise. Someone who understands the consequences and will feel them personally." The steward looked to his son, but Calindor did not appear all that eager to volunteer.

"Please you, my lord Uncle! Make me be your messenger!" almost demanded Telpë, very keen to do it.

"Telpë!" scolded Orongil, exasperated with his much younger cousin. When the young ellon turned to him unabashed, querulous of the reprimand, it prompted further schooling. "You are less qualified then even Calindor! Too young, limited experience, and impolite! Hardly capable of appreciating the enormity of what is involved."

"Indeed!" Telpë objected sharply. He squared off towards Orongil, unmistakably confrontational.

"You prove my point!" declared Orongil. He appealed to his Lord. "They are unmistakable foreigners. Neither is fit to deal with the public, the politics, or with Thingol!"

"You think our departure from Aman was a blithe undertaking?" asked an affronted Telpë. "That there were no barriers to our quest? No political consequences to face? Nor price to pay for opposing the will of the Valar?"

Círdan was about to speak his own anger at their heated words when Isil lightly touched his brother on the back of the arm. Surprisingly, the mild gesture restrained Telpë, where plenty of stern words previously could not. His accusative questions instantly halted; his taut posture loosened.

"Never underestimate my brother," warned Isil. "He is more capable than you know."

"However much _you_ believe in him, he understands nothing of _our_ concerns," stated Orongil.

"Whether by _our_ you mean Elmoi or Úmanyar concerns, I admit ignorance," said a Telpë hitherto unseen. He was subdued, almost icy. "But, I will learn whilst Isil and Uncle do their assessment. By the time they know where they stand, I assure you I shall be ready to carry their report to Menegroth." He turned to Círdan, who could only think of how he foolishly preferred the exuberant youth over this coolly-reasonable adult. "I will act according to your orders, my lord. Your message shall be delivered exactly as dictated. And no one shall hear of our origin or ultimate goal, save the King and the Prince."

Isil, wearing a self-deprecating frown upon his face, silently nodded his endorsement of his brother's promises.

"A whole turn would not be long enough for you to learn what you lack," claimed a still angry Orongil. "Five minutes out there on your own and anyone will see that you are not Falathrim – let alone one of _us_!"

Círdan now saw it was Orongil's pride, as an accomplished grandson of Elmo, that was the true cause of his objections to Telpë. It was rather surprising to him that his friend was being so judgmental of the youth, since Telpë was very like their grandfather. In many ways, more then was Orongil. Despite their difference in age. _And maybe that is the reason... _However, he again did not have to intercede.

"I beg to disagree with your evaluation," Glinnor politely opined. "As has been pointed out, they have remained in your care for some time without widespread gossip. There were no rumours of strangers with strange customs roaming about ere their coming to you or to the palace. Like you, other people will not see what our Lord can easily perceive. And royal court is royal court. In that regard, the heron likely has more experience than I do."

"You posses more than a modicum of maturity and wisdom to temper inexperience."

"Which is why he will be taking lessons from Tarlancor. If he does not come up to scratch, he does not go. As simple as that." Tarlancor was one of Glinnor's advisors: a fiercely stern scholar, who possessed little sentiment and notoriously lacked any ability to compromise his standards. "That is _your_ way, is it not?" Amongst the Elmoi, one was required to prove themselves qualified for an appointment before assuming its authority, and it mattered not if the position was hereditary or bestowed. Glinnor looked to their Lord for approval of his suggested solution.

"I wholeheartedly agree," Círdan said, silencing any further discussion with an upraised hand. "Obviously, you both have realized that Thingol and Elmo will need living proof to believe what has come to pass. Just as I did. Any mention from Melian of a departure from distant shores not withstanding. Isil must assist me, so Telpë _must_ go. However... " He fixed said nephew with a look that wilted the young ellon's blossoming smile, before turning back to his counselors. "... as he is Elmoi, it will be done in accordance with Orongil's requirements. If not deemed ready to be on his own, if he cannot fulfill his duty wisely, and especially if it is not safe for him to go, then he will not." Despite the stated conditions, Telpë was elated; clearly confident he would be journeying to Eglador.

"Even if he loses the accent and gains some manners," Orongil complained in sardonic tones. "What can he plausibly tell people about himself other than what we do not want them to hear?"

Círdan looked closely at both princes. They did speak differently, but there were various dialects spoken in Beleriand. His own ears heard clear echoes from a distant time past. The Light in their eyes was less noticeable when they were side-by-side. But, disguising Telpë's appearance would only emphasize the brightness, especially if standing alone. It would be better to continue letting it appear that it came from his eledhwaith breeding.

"Indeed, how shall he be introduced?" rejoined Glinnor. "What official credentials can he bear without arousing too much suspicion?"

"Allow me, my lords!" Unaffected by the elders' annoyed expressions at his discourteous interjection, the glad Telpë went and fetched a large satchel where it had been left on the table by the door. From it, he pulled out a tall scroll, which he unfurled against his chest to hold up to their view.

Círdan immediately recognized the part of the coast depicted there. He took the map into his own hands for a closer look. It was well done.

"You made this yourself?" he asked, hoping the answer would be just that.

"Yes, my lord," was the modest reply. "With Calindor's help."

"I just applied the colors," said Calindor. "Telpë drafted it out and told me what to paint what."

He was pleased to see that Isil's defense of his brother was not merely fraternal. Here was a genuine skill and more intelligence than exhibited thus far. It was heartening. He glanced up, his gaze falling on the silent Maica. The princes' comrade was holding back laughter. Looking at Calindor's smiling face, he could see – that to his friends great amusement – most people misjudged Telpë. _And apparently end up suffering for it._

"See?" said his younger cousin to Orongil, with an open hand extended towards the map. "A truth to tell in place of a secret. Set me to mapping the lands between here and Menegroth as a gift to the King to deliver in person."

"Unless that has been done already," pointed out Isil.

"Very few parts of Beleriand have been mapped with any detail," Círdan admitted. "And not with any precision. An experienced guide is more reliable when one chooses to journey overland. Nonetheless, your mapping skill will easily suffice as a reason for going to Menegroth."

He rolled up the scroll, feeling a bit guilty over his decision. There were those out there along the way who would happily make a capable draftsman their 'permanent guest', whether or not he was in the service of an Aran. And if they ever discovered they had a royal prince to match to a daughter, even happier. But as he had said already, if the journey could not be made safely, Telpë would not go. He looked to Orongil and Glinnor for further comment, of which they made none, and accepted their nod of agreement that one dangerous truth was a cunning shield for another.

"Menegroth... " repeated Telpë with a sense of wonder and portent in his voice. "I cannot wait to see how true is all that I have heard."

Círdan smiled; charmed by his nephew's his unambiguous enjoyment of the possibilities that lay before him. Of a sudden, the uplifting feeling turned weighty and pressed down upon his heart. Telpë's destiny was not nearly as fixed as those standing around him. _You aim to be the author of your own doom..._ The revelation was discomforting. For sadly, if Telpë ever rightly came seeking guidance concerning his future, his Uncle would have little advice to give. Because, he had never been in control of his own.

"You require another name," he found himself saying. "Orongil is right about the importance of being perceived as a born nostel. Most of whom go by galadhren names."

"And I have one!" was the cheerful reply. "Celeborn! It is not quite a literal translation of mine own. But then, Celeborchal simply does not suit, does it."

"He was given it by an admiring daughter of the fisher-folk that aided us," Isil told them with a reminiscing smile. "For her own convenience, she gave each of us a more amenable version of our names. Fortunately, mine turned out not different than what it truly is." He sent his brother an arch glare. "I for one would never discard the name my father gave me."

"But, my only brother," predictably argued Telpë, in the same sibling humour, "my Úmanyar name honors our father as well as yours always has. You were named for the first scion of the Elder Tree, and now I am named for the second. Appropriate since our father is the eldest 'tree' of the Eryn Elmoi."

"Úmanyar?" queried Glinnor. "That is twice now you have said that word."

"Not of the Aman peoples, my father, as you suppose" explained his son with a pretense of seriousness. "Although, there are those that do not consider Islanders, such as they are, Amanyar anyway."

"What of your accent, then?" asked an unamused Orongil, cutting through the banter. He clearly wanted a commitment from his cousin to reform his speech.

"Accent? Just what do you mean by that, gwanur?" Telpë asked, acting offended – sounding exactly like his cousin. "Glaeru! Open your ears and listen better!"

Orongil's mouth fell open. Glinnor appreciatively guffawed. Maica snorted, and Calindor's serious face broke into a huge, open smile. Isil rolled his eyes and threw up a hand.

"Why, my words are as lyrics," the youngest prince went pleasantly on. With imitative self-possessed wit, he donned a sparkling smile – grinning exactly like his cousin. Pushing back his sleeves, he crossed his arms. His head he tilted back, affecting a cocked eyebrow. . "For my speech is utterly musical!"

As hard as he tried, Círdan could not keep from laughing out loud along with the rest. Telpë's impersonation went beyond mockery, he _was_ Orongil!

"Does he do that to just anyone?" the incredulous chieftain asked Isil, and received a chagrined nod in affirmation. Flabbergasted and shaking his head, he asked, "However do you stand him?"

"I have no choice," his cousin sighed with a pained squint. "He is my little brother. I am stuck with him."

"And you are my only brother," said Telpë, abruptly back to being himself. "Whom I will always follow and always wish I were more alike." Although lightly spoken, his words were sincere. He visibly switched personalities again. This time affecting his brother's countenance and cadence. "Nevertheless, where the cook's daughter is concerned... " He drew his hands behind his back and looked sideways in Isil's most thoughtful manner. "… am you."

Everyone burst into hearty uncontrolled laughter – even Isil. Although, his expressive eyes promised retribution upon the one making jokes at his expense.

"Your wish shall change as you grow beyond your brother," very quietly predicted a jolly Círdan, while the laughter was still going on. Without his realizing he had said it aloud. Or that Telpë had heard him. For he was as distracted as the others, besides being quite pleased that argument had been turned into mirth.

"My Lord," ventured Orongil, when he had recovered the ability to speak. "Do you not think," his amused smile turned speculative, "the perfect person to escort _Celeborn_ would be Nimloss?" Oddly though, the chieftain's eyes were resting upon Isil and not Telpë.

"Indeed yes" he immediately agreed. "No one better and no one else." He felt a profound certainty that Nimloss was who it had to be, if their messenger – whomever that actually ended up being – were to arrive safely to inform the King of their objectives.

"Nimloss is a guide?" asked Telpë; once more himself, his enthusiasm once more uncontained.

"One of the best," confirmed Glinnor, who now wore a smile similar to Orongil's. "A wise veteran of many travels from whom you could learn a great many things about life in Beleriand. And in general."

"Uncle, might you invite him to come here prior our departure and instruct me? I would like to get to know him as a friend as well as a guide."

"We shall see," he replied, not holding back a disapproving frown for both his councilors' smirking grins. "And _she_ is Hiril Nimloss to you, young master mapmaker."

TBC

**= Author's Notes =**

_All elvish is in Sindarin unless otherwise indicated and __underlined__ means I put it together myself – corrections and comments are welcome!_

ellon/elleth – elf, m/f

ellyn/ellith – elves, m/f

hir/hiril – sir or lord/ dame or lady

heron/heryn – lord or prince/lady or princess

aran – king (also translates as 'Lord' for it means the ruler of a realm, not just royalty)

nos – House or household

nothrim – household or clan members (collective form of nos)

nostel – an individual member of a household

gwanur – kin

galadhren – tree-like

eledhwaith – star-folk These were Elwë's people within the Lindar.

nenwaith – lake-folk These were Nowë's people within the Lindar.

tawarwaith – forest-folk These were Lenwë's people within the Lindar.

Eglath – the Forsaken – the name those left behind in Beleriand called themselves

Elmoi – the kindred and clan of Elmo – Elmo and Oioloth had other children, after Galadhon, who in turn had children of their own.

Glaeru! – a minimization of the Music of Iluvatar, Eru's Lay!

**= Concerning the basic premise = **

Menegroth and Doriath – Menegroth was founded after Thingol and Melian's emergence from Nan Elmoth. The Queen warned the King that the peace they enjoyed then would not last. So, he sought to build a stronghold that would stand "if evil were to awaken again". They did mean something or someone like Melkor.

After Menegroth's construction, a plague of fell beasts, the reproducing remnants of Melkor's ruinous works in the north, seeped across Ennor. With the further help from the Dwarves, the Sindar armed themselves with better weapons and drove off "all creatures of evil". Thereafter, the armories of Thingol's fortress were kept well-stocked, the weapons within well maintained.

Doriath was yet to be.

Denethor, the son of Lenwë, and his following (Nandor which had scattered west from his father's realm of Lórinand) were also being harassed by the evil creatures roaming out from the north. Having heard word of a strong lord who had won against such evil creatures, he took a gathered host into Beleriand. There, he was welcomed as "kin long lost" by Thingol. Their new homeland was called Ossiriand. "... and all the Elves of Beleriand, from the mariners of Círdan to the wandering hunters of the Blue Mountains beyond the River Gelion, owned Elwë as their lord... "

After the bane of fell creatures was mitigated, people again began to scatter and build new settlements. Potential new realms, around the lakes of Neverast and Mithrim and in the river valley of the Narog, were taking shape. "Now in his [Thingol's] wide realm, many Elves roamed free in the wild, or dwelt at peace in small kindreds far sundered... " It is notable that other than Denethor there is no mention of another prominent lord dwelling outside of the heavily populated coast or central forests.

The gradual process of inhabitation in the western regions was interrupted by the return of Melkor himself. He rebuilt his fortress of Angband and amassed a new army. When ready, he sent his army out to go swiftly down the two great passes on either side of the forests of Region and Neldoreth, where lay Menegroth. Thus, the first battle under the stars, the first battle of the Wars in Beleriand, was fought on two fronts.

The northern Sindar in Mithrim were at first by-passed, just as were the Dwarves of Belegost and Nogrod. Melkor's intention was to quickly finish off his real enemies. Therefore, there was little warning, and the three Arans had to hastily gather armed hosts and go against the two-pronged assault, not really knowing the size of the forces they opposed. In the northwest, Cirdan's host was beaten and driven back, pursued even to their walled cities. In the southeast, Thingol's host, after being cut-off from Círdan, pushed to join Denethor. By the time they arrived, the Laegrim were already engaged and outnumbered. In that battle, the Orc army was defeated and driven off to be mopped up by the Dwarves. But, Denethor and all his nearest kin were slain.

Returning to Menegroth with what was left of the Sindar and Nandor hosts and learning of Círdan's defeat, Thingol called for all who could to come within his and his queen's dominion. Melian then threw up a protective wall of enchantment. "And this inner land, which was long named Eglador, was after called Doriath…"

A short time after these events, Fëanor landed at Losgar.


	7. A princess gives up a mission

**Chapter 6 – The White Snow Princess gives up an important mission **

Orongil's familiar voice called to her.

"Nimloss! Please come in!"

She turned from the open window, where she and her bowman were engrossed in looking out, to see an aide courteously holding open the door for her to enter the Elmoi chieftain's office chamber.

Normally she, or certainly Rauben, would have been immediately aware of any movement behind their backs. There would have been no need to draw their attention. However, this being the secure residence of the Shipwright, both had let themselves be distracted in gleefully speculation on what was behind the bustling activity in the courtyard a couple of stories below. Between them, they had been joking that preparations must be underway to celebrate a hastily entered marriage. One which, if Steward Glinnor were more astute about young love, should not have been unanticipated.

On any account, something was afoot, and very likely she and her merchant company were about to be made a part of it. Else she would not have been summoned by her clan's local lord from their transitory encampment, a goodly distance from the city. If for a feast, she would be happy to lend a hand. If for another reason... _Well then_ _that could be a problem_. Her current commission allowed no room for additional intrigues. But, withholding her cooperation could be awkward. Not divulging the particulars of her orders would be the tricky part of saying no. Although not her direct overlord, an appeal from this powerful chieftain could not be easily ignored on that point alone. No more than could his inconvenient summons.

Orongil was a prince of the Falas and of the Elmoi nothrim. She was herself a high-born lady, a hiril of her people and of the clan. The maternal half of her family were Falathrim and resided in Brithombar. Her paternal side belonged to the following of Deneréd, Denethor's eldest son. Her mother had chosen to dwell with her father's people, so she had been raised Laegrim – but taught Falathrim ways also. They had visited her mother's people often as she grew up.

That she was Elmoi nobility in two realms was of great consequence. Her practically dual citizenship was a distinct advantage to her main business of trade. As well, her routine journeying between the west and east lands was used to advantage by the rulers of the realms for their main business of government. She took a good deal of pride in being a trusted agent for peace and order. In truth, grateful for the fundamental role she played and moreover enjoyed.

There were inherent difficulties which came along with the honor. Fortunately, in most cases where there might arise a conflict of loyalties, there were – unlike in the not so distant past – established protocols. Her own lord's commands came first and could not be gainsaid by another. Upon meeting that responsibility, the decision to accommodate another lord's wishes was ultimately hers to make. Discretion being the watchword in every case.

Rauben turned to her and offered a helpless shrug in regards to not being called in with her. Unless invited, he could not accompany her inside the private room.

An irritated huff was her short reply. Clearly, Orongil meant to lower her resistance to his proposition by not letting the cogndîr stand with his princess in support against him. Meaning the matter was probably something more than asking her crew to police the speculated wedding venue so that his herth might partake in the celebrations.

After coming into the chieftain's office, the door was quietly but firmly closed behind her.

"Ah, Nimloss! Upon the Ulumúri, 'tis wonderful to see you again!"

He had risen to his feet to greet her, a sea-prince, standing tall in the bright starlight streaming in through the curtain-less window. The gathered tail of his long silver hair had fallen forward over his shoulder and been indifferently left there instead of flung back to hang neatly down his back. His collar was characteristically unfastened, his sleeves unfashionable folded back for convenience.

"You are looking quite hale, fair lady, and possibly even lovelier than when last we spoke."

It had been some time since last they met, but she saw no change in him. He was as attractive as ever. _If only you had another son…_ She made that lonesome wish every time upon seeing him again. Especially after being long away. For she felt deeply that an ellon of his breeding would suit her where so far no other sort had. Sadly, there looked to be small chance of another such as he ever coming into the world except through his own descendants.

"Life in the wildwood, without question, suites you."

He wore the charming grin that had thoroughly captivated her upon their introduction when she was but a budding maiden. _Well, you're a grown elleth now,_ she schooled herself_._ An adult who better understood her inner desires and could enjoy his flirtatiousness for what it was: a generous treat never meant as sustenance.

The frustrating thing about his peculiar rarity was she did not want to wait for a grandson to be born and come of an age to wed. Despite ill luck in her search to find another of his ilk while she was still young, she remained oddly hopeful of just that. She continued to anticipate that her chance would come soon for settling down and raising eledhwaith children with a loving spouse possessed of Orongil's better qualities and none of his bad. _Whenever we finally do meet…_ So having indulged in her customary internal ritual, thoughts of future bliss were once more set aside to concentrate on present concerns.

He elegantly gestured to the chair before his desk. "Please... "

She took the offered seat, intentionally sitting with legs crossed and arms akimbo. Her silent message was perfectly understood: she was not about to do his bidding merely because he asked. Since she was wearing forest garb, his eyebrows raised in amusement rather than in disapproval of unladylike conduct.

He resumed his own seat, careless that he might cause creases in his attire for not smoothing the folds beforehand. She fought back a smile. His lack of personal vanity was one of the things she liked about him. Even though, it was just a side-effect of his unappealing tendency towards self-possessiveness.

"So, you are disinclined even to listen?" he scolded. His grin toned down to a slim smile. He never was one to pick at words when confronted. "When in fact," and he executed a condescending flip of a low hand to an elevated palm, "this is Círdan's request."

That news – as intended – made her unfold and sit upright, hands upon knees. Not only because she had great respect for the ancient lord. She naturally felt affectionate regard for the elder who was ever kind towards her and her family. Her mother had even called him 'Uncle', although she herself had not that privilege. In addition, since from Círdan, this request might have to do with the Valar, and it was always best to be respectful where those powerful beings were involved.

"I am listening, lord chief." Her new primness – adopted as an intentional contrast to the disdainful attitude she had shown Orongil – brought back his grin.

"Then I shall tell you. An artisan of some special skills, who happens to be one of _us_, is being placed at the service of the King," he explained. "Therefore, my Lord has given it to me to arrange the fellow's safe passage to Menegroth. So of course, I thought of you first."

"But, my company does not take on passengers. You know that." She was befuddled, but managed to keep it from her face and voice. The exchange of craftsmen between realms was extremely routine. What special skills could this person possible possess that the Shipwright, or for that matter this prince, would get directly involved with his transportation?

"I am aware of company policy. So, he shall be an employee." Orongil clearly thought he was being clever. He did have a shareholding in her business, and therefore a voice – as an investor, not an officer. Of course, that never stopped him from acting as though he was in-charge of everyone and everything.

"I hire whom I wish, my lord, and I already have too many hands." All of whom were more dependable and would be of more help to her mission than a complete stranger whatever his ability.

"Oh, I am sure you can find something for him to do to earn his way." He was being more than presumptuous. He was pushing. _Well, I will just push back._

"If you were not so cheap, you would – as you should – arrange a traveling party straight for Eglador."

"You wound me, fair lady! Could you not have said thrifty?" His affable attitude had not been affected by her bold words. Which only further stirred her suspicions. "But here now, are you not on your return leg?"

"No, we turn north for a couple of turns, then to Menegroth." Her normal route had been changed to accommodate her mission. She would be trekking to the small settlements scattered throughout the lands north of the heights of the Taur-en-Faroth. To one settlement in particular.

"Really? How inconvenient. We were depending upon you making your usual journey. We wanted someone trustworthy to keep an eye on the young ellon."

"No," she flatly stated and shook her head for emphasis. "The paths we take are too rough for sailors and city-dwellers. And I am not cutting my plans short for your purposes." She turned adamant. "I do not baby-sit artists. Talented or not, nothrim or not. Nor am I a hired guide for some pampered brat who fancies himself a daring adventurer!" Which was naught but to frankly say that she took the craftsman story to be a poorly-made blind for a political favour.

Not exactly the best way to speak to a chief, she knew. No matter how good a patron or friend. Nonetheless, aside from the demeaning imposition, everyone in her crew without exception would be endangered by her real goal in going into the northwest territory. A clueless youth was the last person she needed to have around when things got complicated.

"But, that is not what I am asking of you, Nimloss. He is no babe-in-the-woods. He can take care of himself, and I am confident would fare just fine amongst your lot. 'Tis just... well... my Lord considers him close kin and prefers that someone he knows be watching over him."

_Close kin? _And someone, who despite all Orongil was saying, apparently could not be left on his own. For some unreasonable reason, she felt jealous. Círdan had never voiced any worry about her youthful self roving the wilderlands before Rauben had became her bowman. Although, he had often said after the cogndîr had joined up with her how glad he was that she had a strong protector at her side.

"Well then send him the usual way!" she protested. "With a senior craftsman or a bodyguard even. Why in all Arda burden _me_ with him?"

"He would be no burden, since he would be working for you and under your orders. We simply do not want anything untoward to happen to him along the way to the King."

_Anything untoward?_ Did someone besides herself already want to do the fellow harm? Again, she thought of her bowman. Was it possible that he and not she was the real reason for this personal request? But, a farrod's first duty was to fight fell creatures, whenever and wherever that danger arose. If he was needed, Rauben was obliged to leave her side, and the company would be without his protection.

"Rauben could be called away at any time. What of your precious lad's safety then? Or does he know how to fight off a bear? And let us hope, at the very least, that he unafraid of wolves."

"You know there is little chance your bowman will be called away. Shadow-things are not running about reeking havoc any more," he confidently stated, then slightly relented. "In Dimbar, maybe. But, the farrod and his colleagues have been most efficient in cleansing the western lands."

She was shocked at his excuses. Clearly, this young ellon he was so determined to get to Menegroth was someone important. More lay behind the lord's arguments than merely fulfilling his Lord's wishes. Good sense told her to find out everything before dismissing this all out of hand and leaving for the trail unaware of possibly significant goings-on.

"Your pardon, lord chief, but any further discussion must be with Lord Círdan himself," she tersely demanded.

"If that were possible, he would be here." He remained congenial, again surprisingly taking no offense at her disregard. "He has begun construction on a new ship. Hence, I am dealing with this matter and you."

She almost felt reassured by that news. It perfectly explained the general bustle about the palace and no prior greeting from, nor sighting of, the noble resident. Whenever Círdan began a build, the work had his complete attention. He would let his minions take care of all else, even to running things to suit themselves. And they always made as much of the opportunity as was possible. Obviously, both Círdan and Orongil had thought she could be sweet-talked into taking on their lordling. And if sweet-talk did not work, unlike the Shipwright, the chieftain was not above cornering her into it.

Orongil smiled in the patronizing manner he affected when sure he had the upper hand.

She smiled in return, acting bemused at his annoying confidence.

Well, he was not going to run _her_ affairs as he pleased. The challenge of getting an audience with the preoccupied Shipwright goaded her into tactics she did not normally employ.

"The Lord is too busy?" she asked with a flutter of her eyelashes and a winsome tilt of her head. "Even for me?"

"Shameless," was Orongil's chuckled response. Said more because she was mocking his initial attempt to persuade her rather than pandering to his gender. A wry smile spread across his lips. "All this time, you have been yearning after that old salt." He feigned a disappointed sigh. "When here I thought I was more to your taste."

"You are." She coquettishly winked at him. "Nonetheless, I must hear a good reason to be... more accommodating. You understand." She leaned back; crossing her legs again, her arms lazily lain over her stomach. "Priorities... " she said pointedly.

"Is that it?" For a moment he paused, looking as though he was pondering her small hint. But actually, it was to enjoy her unusual coyness. He sat back as well; elbows braced on the armrests of his chair, hands clasped before his chest. "Well then... " he finally said. "Sadly, we are both in a bind. You understand. Expectations... " Meaning: as he was expected to do what his better had asked of him, so she was expected to do what he as her better was asking of her.

He smiled. She smiled.

Neither spoke, for they both did indeed understand the other person's position very well. A simple exchange of services was not possible. They would have to strike a deal.

"I will go first," he pleasantly decided.

She nodded, agreeable with that.

"Without your help in this matter, I am afraid I cannot help you with the matter of your warrants."

"So happens, all my badges are current." In fact, they were good for another six turns and irrevocable in her absence. Rank did have its privileges. But, he would have known beforehand that there was no leverage to be had with her trade warrants. They were merely an opening move. He would be more prepared, in case she proved reluctant. "Surely, you can do better than that," she deliberately prodded.

"H'mm, let me see..." His pondering was just another tactic. But then, his expression completely altered. He looked to have suddenly changed his mind, and his tight smile was replaced by an ingenuous grin. "Oh, why not now?" He almost appeared not to know he was speaking aloud, if to himself. "Later might be wiser, but maybe not better." He fixed a bemused gaze on her. "I have what it will take to sway you. If you think me so – "

At that moment, there was an insistent knock on the door. They exchanged a look of mutual annoyance for having been interrupted just when negotiations had turned promising.

"Enter," the clan-lord stiffly allowed. She hoped it would be a quick question, so she could be offered the prospect that had turned him so cheerful.

"My apologies, Lord Orongil." It was a different aide than had ushered her in. "Círdan Aran requests that my lord and the lady please come to his workshop."

They looked at each other and broke into laughter. The Shipwright was far-seeing. He also had a very strong dislike of _any_ sort of bickering. At times, one was quite unexpectedly reminded of both those aspects of his extraordinary nature.

= 88888888 =

They chatted amiably about the weather and trade as they walked together to the large shed by the docks, choosing without discussion to leave alone the actual topic at hand. Going inside, far to the back, against the seaward wall where there was a row of small windows cut out, they found Círdan – with Rauben. The cogndîr was holding a rather short spyglass to his eye.

Apparently, upon his own initiative, her bowman had sought out the Shipwright. No doubt gladly answering when asked why he was wandering around and not in attendance upon Nimloss. His successful tactic visibly vexed Orongil. The chieftain looked quite irritated with himself for having allowed the wily hunter to get away with going behind his back. His taking responsibility for his error however did not stop her from gloating a bit before they joined the Laegel and the Lord.

"Here, Farrod," said Círdan, gently taking the spyglass from Rauben's fingers. "It expands... " He pulled at the smaller end and the casing grew longer into graduated segments that fit snuggly together. "... and the range is thus increased." He handed it back to the bowman, much longer than it was before.

"Franuilos! This is amazing!" He turned to her, very excited at what he had seen. "My lady, you must look! You can see to the other side of bay as if standing there!"

She came over to him and eagerly took the instrument, carefully cradling it as she held it up to her eye. The far beacon tower looked astonishingly close! She could see the faces of the lookouts as they walked around, scanning the horizon. She let it down to compare to normal sight, before looking through it again. Then, she offered it to Orongil, who bemusedly waved off the opportunity. Apparently, he had already had enough turns with it that he was no longer impressed. Círdan held out a hand, and she returned it to him.

"Yea, 'tis a wonderful thing, my lord!" she praised. "Pray tell me please, where may I get one made?"

"I am afraid that the glassmakers are still learning how to repeat the process." He set his open palm against the small end and with gentle pressure collapsed the instrument. "This one was a fortuitous gift."

"How disappointing for me and your captains." _Odd though…_ The exterior casing was not merely utilitarian, she had observed, but superbly finished and bearing beautiful artistic details. Causing one to think it more product than prototype. She feigned a sigh. "Not that I would be able to afford one anyway." There was a little row of strange squiggles painted on the corner of the lid of the small box he shut it into.

"Perhaps you shall be able... next visit... " He had not missed her covert opening. "... by making my delivery for me this time."

"About that – "

"Aack," he halted her with a flat handed gesture. "Forgive my bad manners." He placed his hands upon her shoulders, giving them a caring squeeze. "Tell me first how you and yours fare, sweet child." His kind interest in everyone's well-being always warmed her heart.

"I and the family are in good health and wealth, my lord. As is the company." Smiling, she bowed her head. Upon raising it, adding, "And I am happy to find you well and enthused about a new ship."

"Does it show?" he replied with a twinkle in his eye, quite cognizant of how transparent his feelings truly were when he neglected to veil them. He glanced over at the clan-lord. "Do tell me why you are reluctant to deal with Orongil. Does he ask too much effort and promise too little reward?"

"Oh no, my lord! That is not the difficulty," she sincerely protested. "You have always been most generous, but I have no capacity to take on another commission." Hopefully, that was revelation enough for him to diplomatically avoid further questions. Indeed, the knowing look on his face was a relief.

"Hmph... " But, the displeased remark surprised her. Apparently, he was not going to refrain from trampling on a fellow ruler's toes. "Come over here with me, and let us see if I cannot persuade you all the same." Her earlier wariness returned two-fold. If he was not going to take no for an answer either, then indeed something important was in the wind.

The three of them followed the Shipwright to a high worktable. Upon it were the sorts of sketches commonly used by a master shipbuilder to convey his instructions to his workers. Plain drawings mostly, but still mysterious to her untrained eye. Written on the sheets was a bit of the cirth lettering that more and more craftsmen had taken to using since its invention. However, here and there were some with the same stranger figures as were on the spyglass' box. Círdan dragged the broad pages of plans aside to reveal an even larger and more colorful parchment beneath.

She recognized right away that it was a map of the inlet, but with more detail than she had ever seen before on any drawing of land or sea. Although it lacked villages or docks as landmarks, the waterline was eerily accurate, more than just a suggestion of the shape of the shoreline. Bands of varied blue hues visually suggested some kind of difference in the waters of one place to another. Círdan nodded at her querulous look.

"Yes, it is quite accurate. And to scale. You can estimate the distance as the bird flies simply by measuring the space on the map and multiplying that by the correct factor. It is still unfinished, but try to imagine it complete with the different hues of colors to indicate variations beneath the water's surface. Shoals, depth, the flow of currents... "

She took a deep breath. Such a chart would be worth its weight in true silver.

"Imagine this sort of map of the lands between here and Menegroth... "

She looked sharply at him. Not so much a mystery now why the maker might need to be guarded by someone who could be trusted. Nor was it a surprise that the techniques of this craft would have been kept secret. What was hard to understand was that this good lord and prince standing next to him – both of whom she knew possessed only love for quendi-kind and held little self-interest over the welfare of their people – had until now withheld this boon.

Here was something which could prevented the violent conflicts that had come to plague Beleriand's scattered inhabitants as cruelly as once had shadow-things. The terrible slayings that had already happened might have been prevented.

Border disputes had become the bane of the Laegrim since their arrival in the west. Though never as much amongst themselves as between them and their non-nomadic neighbors. Outside of the three established realms, what should have been peaceful interaction remained unruly. The absolute worst was marauder-lords taking over outlying settlements – and open territory! – by force of arms. Many times demanding an amount of tribute that left inhabitants starving and her own people suffering crushing tolls. For which they would be imprisoned if not paid.

With an accurate map, it could all have been prevented. The King's Council could have sat down and clearly marked the boundaries for new settlement. Thingol could have decreed that everyone would hold to that pact. The Elmoi could have legitimately enforced compliance on his behalf. Disputes could have been brought to court instead to the point of a spear. _Instead of ruinous fighting. Instead of murder and mayhem._

There would be no having to depend on someone's biased or faulty memory to resolve a claim. No more bribery. No more dithering over whose noble obligation it was to defend a beleaguered village, while in the meantime, its people died. _No more deadly challenges to expend one life instead of many. No more senseless bloodshed!_

Her next breath caught in her chest. _Bloodshed..._ precisely what she herself had been sent out to perpetrate! Did Círdan know? Is that why he had shown her this? Had Fate brought her to him to serve a higher purpose than thwarting one rogue lord?

"The cartographer is whom I wish for you to take safely to Elu Thingol Aran."

"What's a cartographer?" asked Rauben.

"A fancy name for a mapmaker," she explained. "Lord Círdan," she addressed him sharply, failing to keep the bitterness out of her voice. "You ask me to use my imagination, but I find it had to imagine why you have not sent this person or his master to the King long before now."

"I did not have it in my power to do so, Hiril. Else I surely would have."

Only because it was Círdan did she accept his excuse.

She angrily turned back to the map. Reaching out, she swept her fingertips lightly over the surface. It was a work of art and science; imbued with its maker's heartfelt love of creation. Indeed, it was very important for this special craftsman to be taken to the King and Queen as soon as possible.

And she yearned for the honor. But, to keep the mapmaker safe, she would have to betray Lord Denerèd's trust. She forced her hand down to her side, disappointed over this missed chance to play a greater part in the cause of lasting peace.

"I beg your forgiveness, great lord," she softly intoned; her head bowed. "But, I cannot be of help to you."

Círdan nodded, sighing. He sounded as if he had always known what the outcome of his request would be. Still he had offered her the choice. Not forcing the wanted answer upon her nor taking the praiseworthy opportunity from her. Such was his wisdom. It saddened her though that he would most likely, and easily enough, find another way to get his valuable kinsman to Menegroth.

"We came at Lord Orongil's request," she said, signaling withdraw. "And shall go by your leave, Círdan Aran." She and Rauben both then respectfully bowed.

"What, you are not staying?" he asked. His disappointment was more profound for that than for her unhappy refusal. "Not even for a little while? Partake your supper here, at least."

"No, we are camped at a distance outside the city and were about to go on when summoned. The company is standing in wait. We promised to return and start off as soon as business permitted."

"Then, may the stars shine bright upon your path, Nimloss, and you Rauben, and your followers. Please, on your next trip, plan on staying longer. There are many who would have enjoyed even hasty words instead of missing you entirely yet again." He came around the corner of the table and took up her hands in his. "Promise me that?" he asked, in a gentle wheedling voice.

"Of course, my lord." A soft blush came to her cheeks. "I dearly wish I could do for you all that you have asked."

"Yes, I know."

= 88888888 =

Orongil silently escorted them back to the main doors of the palace, where they exchanged farewells. But, the chieftain did say one thing more before he left them.

"A pity circumstances have not permitted you to stay, fair lady. You would have liked my cousin." With that and an irritatingly playful grin, he turned away and went back inside.

They descended the stair and crossed the courtyard and were outside the gates, onto the streets, and well into the city proper before Rauben chose to discuss the parting remark.

"I gather he meant the cartographer." Her bowman clearly enjoyed saying that word, which was amusing enough to slightly raise her low mood. "There be a strongly cunning streak in his kin."

"Yea, likely who he meant," she replied with an unforced smile. She was not sorry for having missed yet another introduction to yet another eligible bachelor cousin of Orongil's. She had never found any of them, blood or adopted, particularly comparable to the chieftain himself.

Passersby were openly staring at them for their Nandorin garb and speech. So, it did not please her when someone – with a loud hail – brought them even more attention.

"FARROD! FARROD RAUBEN! WAIT!"

The insistent shout halted not just them, but everyone around them. Other people accidently bumped into those that had suddenly stopped, and her bowman turned defensive of her person. Which upset the gentle folk around them.

"FARROD RAUBEN! WAIT!"

Her temper was tweaked awake at the annoyance of it all. The fellow trying to catch up to them had better be carrying an urgent message from someone _very_ important.

TBC

**= Author's Notes =**

_All elvish is in Sindarin unless otherwise indicated and __underlined__ means I put it together myself – corrections and comments are welcome!_

ellon/elleth – elf, m/f

hir/hiril – sir or lord/ dame or lady

nothrim – household or clan members (collective form of nos)

herth – household troops

orë – heart, inner spirit

eledhwaith – star-folk These were Elwë's people within the Lindar.

nenwaith – lake-folk These were Nowë's people within the Lindar.

tawarwaith – forest-folk These were Lenwë's people within the Lindar.

Elmoi – the kindred and clan of Elmo – Elmo and Oioloth had other children, after Galadhon, who in turn had children of their own.

cogndîr – bowman _Nandorin_

farrod – hunt lord or noble hunter _fara- _to hunt _arod_ noble, high ranking

aran – king (also translates as 'Lord' for it means the ruler of a realm, not just royalty)

Deneréd – my name for the eldest son of Denethor

Glaeru! – a minimization of the Music of Iluvatar, Eru's Lay!

**= Concerning the basic premise =**

The News from Aman – Many readers of the Silmarillion wonder why the Sindar – their king especially – were so clueless about world events with the Queen sitting right there next to Thingol whispering words of wisdom in his ear. It is not that Elwë did not listen to her. He did. Most of the time.

And there are indications that Melian had a limited knowledge of happenings in Eldamar. Although, it would not have included specifics about some rebellious runaways headed for Hither Shores. In fact, not anything specific happening in the Uttermost West.

Maiar and Valar did continue to visit Beleriand, after the transport of the Olwë's host, right up to the destruction of the Two Trees.

But significantly, Oromë did not aid Thingol in driving off the "fell beasts of the North", even while he "still at times" rode in Beleriand. The "Elves feared him for him for the splendor of his countenance". And must have avoided him as in the olden times. Nevertheless, he is not cited as visiting Elwë after the king's return from Nan Elmoth. He had no hand in helping to find him either. On the coast though, Ossë often sat teaching and enjoying the company of the Teleri. After their transport to Aman, "... he though grieving taught them the craft of shipbuilding... ". However, he clearly had it his own way with the Teleri left behind in Beleriand.

The Úmanyar did things for themselves. With help from their new neighbors, the Dwarves.

Melian did not get regular updates from her former colleagues. She was told of the death of the Trees and the Darkness that followed by Galadriel, while that lady dwelt in Doriath during the time Gondolin and Nargothrond were being constructed. And no more information than that. She says to her friend:

"… 'There is some woe that lies upon you and your kin. That I can see in you, but all else is hidden from me; for no vision or thought can I perceive that passed or passes in the West; a shadow lies over all the land of Aman, and reaches far out over the sea.' ... " – Of the Noldor in Beleriand – The Silmarillion

The Exiles would not know the particulars of the veiling of Aman until Turgon sent his mariners back there. This seems to say she can indeed perceive goings on in Aman itself – with limitations.

The same sort of limitations as Galadriel admits when the Fellowship came into Lórien:

"... 'Gandalf the Grey set out with the Company, but he did not pass the borders of this land. Now tell us where he is; for I much desire to speak with him again. But I cannot see him from afar, unless he comes within the fences of Lothlórien: a grey mist is about him, and the ways of his feet and of his mind are hidden from me.' ... " – The Mirror of Galadriel – The Fellowship of the Ring – The Lord of the Rings

Melian might have been able to communicate with Arien and Tilion, when they were overhead and not preoccupied with work. Nonetheless, prior to the War of Wrath, little in terms of real news seems to have been carried in either direction by the very beings that were in the know.

So, the Noldor did not expect to find Beleriand a civilized place, where land was not free for the taking. And the Sindar were mistaken about the reasons their old allies – and not their own kin – had returned.


End file.
